


Red Brick Road

by castiello



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Action, Adventure, Case File, Crime, Drama, Gen, Hurt Patrick Jane, Hurt/Comfort, Investigation, POV Multiple, Season 2, Season/Series 02, Suspense, Worried Lisbon, season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 39,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castiello/pseuds/castiello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an interview goes horribly wrong, Jane is left injured and fleeing for his life alongside a traumatized young witness. A Season 2 adventure, set between "His Red Right Hand" and "A Price Above Rubies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Cop, Crazy Cop

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They're STILL not mine? And I'm STILL not making money from writing about them? **Stomps off, looking disgruntled**
> 
> Beautiful banner created by tromana!

 

 

 

**Chapter One: Good Cop, Crazy Cop**

 

Jeff Cardelli sat in the interrogation room, picking dirt from under his fingernails. Across the table sat an agent named Cho, silently rifling through a manila folder.

They'd been sitting like this for almost twenty minutes.

With a sigh, Jeff dropped his hands and looked over at the large, dark-tinted mirror on the wall. His reflection looked back, pale-faced. There were heavy, purple-black rings under his eyes, and his red hair was a mess – untrimmed and unkempt, sticking out at all angles like straw from a scarecrow. He didn't think he looked guilty, just tired and frustrated.

Jeff wondered how many people were on the other side of that freshly-Windexed glass, watching him right now. He wondered if _they_ thought he looked guilty…

Abruptly, Agent Cho flipped the folder shut and looked up, his face and eyes utterly blank. "It says here you served in the military. Three tours in Iraq?"

"Yes, sir."

Cho peered back inside the file. "'Night Patrol on the streets of Baghdad,'" he read. "That must've been a difficult assignment."

Jeff's jaw tightened. "I've seen some things."

"I'm sure you have. And with everything you went through, I'm sure you became very skilled at defending yourself. As a matter of survival."

"That's right," said Jeff, looking straight into that impassive face. Almost _daring_ the agent to make an accusation.

Agent Cho didn't blink. "Do you currently own a gun, Mr. Cardelli?"

Jeff's teeth made a grinding noise. "Yes, sir, I do."

"A thirty-eight?"

"Which I keep _solely_ for my own protection," Jeff stated icily.

"But it _is_ a thirty-eight?" Cho pressed.

" _Yes_."

"Mr. Cardelli, we're told that—"

The door suddenly burst open.

A blond man swept inside, smiling brightly. He grabbed an empty chair, slid it over to the table, and sat down next to Jeff.

_Right_ next to Jeff.

Jeff felt the invisible "personal space" bubble around him violently pop as this new man peered curiously at him, barely two inches from Jeff's face.

It was some kind of tactic, just like the waiting game. Jeff forced himself not to react.

He looked back at Agent Cho, who went on as though no interruption had occurred.

"We're told that you and Paul Jorsten had an argument two days prior to his death. Can you tell us about that?"

Jeff opened his mouth to answer, but the blond man spoke up first: "Could I hold your hand?"

The words Jeff had been about to say traffic-jammed inside his throat. He did something like a miniature double-take. "Um…What?"

"Just for a minute," the blond guy assured, smiling, and then snatched up Jeff's arm before Jeff even had a chance to object.

Now they were _holding hands_. Right on top of the table. More than that, the blond man's other hand was encircling Jeff's wrist, like a bracelet.

Jeff had to beat down the powerful urge to rip his arm free. He'd been in trouble a few times before. Good Cop, Bad Cop, he could deal with. But Good Cop, _Insane_ Cop? Jeff gritted his teeth.

_Anything to get through this_ , he told himself. _Just get through it._

Jeff turned back to Agent Cho. The Asian man was watching with dark, disaffected eyes, waiting to resume the interrogation.

"Can you tell us about your argument with Mr. Jorsten?" Cho repeated.

"We had a _disagreement_."

"Fair enough. What did you disagree about?"

Jeff shifted in his chair. Even with his eyes fixed on Agent Cho, Jeff could still _feel_ the blond man's intrusive, bizarrely cheerful presence.

"Penny's schedule," Jeff told Cho gruffly. "I was supposed to take her for the next two weekends, but I had to cancel." He shrugged, one-shouldered. "Guess my wife's new husband didn't like it."

"You share custody of your daughter with your ex-wife, Laura?" Cho asked, glancing inside the folder again.

"That's right."

"Why did you have to cancel your visits with Penny?"

Jeff shifted again. The chair creaked. "Work," he grunted, staring at a spot just over Cho's right shoulder. "I needed to put in some extra hours. Been getting behind lately – I've got cars piling up…"

"Hmmm," said the blond man thoughtfully. "And what's the real reason?"

Jeff's mouth twisted. He swung his head around to glare at the blond guy, feeling like a rattlesnake that'd just been stepped on: Part surprise. Part pain. All venom.

Something hot and ugly writhed inside Jeff's gut.

This was _private_.

These people had _no right_.

And it had nothing to do with Paul, anyway…

Jeff took a deep breath, preparing to tell the blond guy exactly where to stick both of those clingy hands, when the back of Jeff's brain--probably the smarter part--hissed at him, once again:

_Just get through it._

The instinct to lash out deflated, but Jeff held onto the fierce look a moment longer, letting murder burn in his eyes, hoping to elicit a twitch from Blondie, who looked like an even bigger wimp than Paul had been.

The blond man just blinked. Pleasant, curious, expectant.

Jeff mentally uttered a curse word. He looked down at the tabletop, defeated.

When he spoke, his voice didn't sound nearly as belligerent as he wanted it to. It was small and faltering, and didn't even really sound like his voice at all.

"I didn't want to scare her."

Agent Cho and the hand-holding freak remained silent, waiting for Jeff to elaborate.

Which, after a rough swallow, he did.

"Lately, I've been…I've just been having trouble. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Whatever you want to call them…"

"You're having flashbacks to Iraq?" Cho asked.

Jeff nodded at the table. "I…wake up screaming. Sweating…Sometimes I break things…" He looked up at Cho, some of the fierceness returning. "Penny doesn't need to see that."

Blondie spoke up. "But you never told this to Paul, or your ex-wife. They just assumed you were blowing off your daughter for work."

Jeff shrugged carefully. Up and down. "Something like that."

"Jorsten accused you of being a bad father," Agent Cho stated flatly. "That would make anyone angry."

Jeff barely restrained an eye roll. He knew exactly where this train was headed. Any idiot would.

"If you acted out, in a moment of anger, it would be perfectly understandable," the agent concluded, watching Jeff closely.

"I _didn't_."

"Can you account for your whereabouts last Thursday night, between ten and eleven?"

"I was with a friend. His horse had gotten loose; I was helping him look for it."

Cho pulled out a notepad and pen with practiced ease. "I'm going to need your friend's name and contact information…"

Jeff rattled the details off in a dull voice. Cho quickly scratched them onto the pad. Blondie just sat there, watching with those bright, fascinated eyes.

Jeff sighed. "Are we done now?"

"No," said Cho. "Did you stay with your friend the entire time you were searching for the horse, or did you split up?"

Jeff huffed another sigh, this time in frustration with himself. Although, really, how could he possibly have known that Paul was going to go and get himself murdered that night?

"We split up," Jeff grumbled reluctantly. "Best way to cover the most ground."

Cho scribbled something else in the notepad. "And how long were you—"

"Did you kill Paul Jorsten?" the blond man interrupted, out of the clear blue.

Jeff turned to look at him. "No."

Blondie tilted his head. Studying, considering.

Jeff felt a sudden need to strengthen his own position. " _No_ ," he repeated firmly, matching that probing blue stare.

"Ever fantasize about it?" Blondie asked, a little smile quirking his mouth.

Jeff couldn't help the distaste that washed over his features, like a cold Budweiser, right to the face. "No. Why the hell would I do that?"

The blond man shrugged good-naturedly. "Oh, come on. Why wouldn't you? You had a nice family – loving wife, beautiful daughter. Sure, the divorce put a crimp in things, but there was still a chance for reconciliation. There was still hope. And then along comes this little twerp Paul, who takes it all away. Who wouldn't want to wring his neck a little, just on principle?" Blondie gave Jeff's arm a playful nudge, still holding onto it with both hands.

"I never fantasized about hurting Paul. _Ever_." Jeff's voice was steely cold, with something molten flowing underneath.

The blond guy cocked his head again. "Why?" he pressed. "It's only fantasy, after all. Everybody does it."

"Because, I just… _wouldn't_. Look-" Jeff began to tap his free hand on the table, enumerating his points "—I didn't kill Paul. I didn't _want_ to kill Paul. I didn't _fantasize_ about killing Paul, and I never would've wished this on him, okay?"

"Why?" Blondie persisted. His face was serious now.

Jeff sighed. "Look, maybe the guy _was_ a twerp. Maybe I _did_ resent him marrying Laura. And yeah, maybe I wasn't crazy about Penny calling him 'Daddy' all the time, either…" Jeff looked straight into the blond man's eyes, earnest and unwavering. "But Paul was a good husband to Laura, and a good father to Penny, and you don't take that away from people. You just…don't."

Blondie nodded. His eyes were distant for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and patted Jeff's hand, releasing it at long last. "Thank you, Jeff. I think that's all we need." The blond man started to stand up – "Oh, one more thing: did you ever find the horse?"

Jeff's brow furrowed at the abrupt topic-jump. "Uh…yeah. We caught up to him around two in the morning."

"He was at Graceada Park?" Blondie asked. "Or somewhere in that vicinity?"

Jeff stared. "How the hell did you know that?"

The blond man grinned. "Lucky guess." He turned to Agent Cho, who'd been watching the exchange with quiet thoughtfulness. "Uh, he's innocent. You can let him go."

Jeff looked back and forth between the two men, scarcely daring to hope. "Seriously? I can go?"

For the first time, Cho looked something other than blank and neutral. Uncertainty flitted across his smooth features. "Uh…"

The agent was spared having to answer because a dark-haired woman burst into the interrogation room, looking like she might be having a murder fantasy of her own.

Jeff recognized her as one of the agents who'd brought him in for questioning. Gibson, or something like that?

He flinched a little when she pointed at him. "Sir, stay right there." Then she turned on Cho and Blondie. "You two, outside." She held the door open for them.

Cho walked out, looking grim and resigned. The blond guy practically bounced after him, and the lady agent brought up the rear.

Jeff could hear her start to speak, right before she pulled the door shut:

"Jane, how many times have I told you—"

Then the latch clicked, the highly-annoyed female voice became muffled, and Jeff was left sitting alone, blinking at his own bewildered reflection and wondering if any of these people were even real cops at all.

 


	2. Decaf

Grace Van Pelt peered over her computer monitor and caught Rigsby's eye. They exchanged sympathetic winces. Both agents could clearly hear Jane being vigorously chewed up and spit out by Lisbon a short distance down the hall. He'd done something in the interview. He always did _something_ , and on a day like today, it wouldn't have taken much.

Lisbon had been on the warpath since her arrival that morning - snapping at secretaries and interns until they stuttered and fled, shooting lethal glares at anyone who dared to look at her for more than two seconds. The problem wasn't hard to decipher. Someone had removed the labels from the coffee pots again, and Grace was pretty sure Lisbon had gotten the decaf by mistake.

Fortunately, the boss's sharp voice petered out after only a minute or so, and a minute after that, Jane strolled into the office, looking like he'd just come from a party, rather than a dressing-down.

"Hey," Rigsby greeted him. "How'd it go with Cardelli?"

Jane waved a hand. "Meh. He's innocent. I'm off to see the widow. Anybody care to join me?"

Grace shifted in her seat, feeling torn. On the one hand, she was aching for more field time. On the other hand, today was definitely _not_ the day to ask the boss for a change in assignment. Plus, it was field time with _Jane_ that Grace would be asking for. He tended to do weird, embarrassing stuff when they went places together. Like pretending to be her fiancé.

Grace decided to fall back on the truth: "Uh, sorry. Boss has me checking the Jorstens' records for possible mob links…"

Jane switched his hopeful gaze to the other agent in the room. "Rigsby?"

Rigsby eyed the consultant warily. "Did Lisbon okay this?"

"Eh, it's just an interview," Jane told him, sounding wholly unconcerned. "Why wouldn't she be okay with it?"

Grace could practically hear the little warning bells going off inside Rigsby's brain. She fought to keep her lips from twitching.

"Uh, you know what? I think I'll stay here and help Van Pelt. It'll be faster with…the two of us," Rigsby finished lamely.

Jane shrugged and smiled at the pair of them, completely unoffended. "Suit yourselves," he said cheerfully, and strolled out the door.

He'd been gone less than five minutes when Lisbon stalked into the office, her nice-but-practical shoes clicking extra-hard against the linoleum. Rigsby instantly tried to look busy with a file.

"Hey, boss," said Grace, not taking her eyes off the computer screen.

"Hey," Lisbon grumbled. "You find anything on the mob angle yet?"

Grace shook her head, then boldly chanced a look at the boss. "No, uh, so far Paul Jorsten's about as clean as they get."

Lisbon nodded distractedly. "Well, we figured it was a long shot, but keep digging anyway…" Lisbon's eyes were scanning the office. They landed on a worn-out brown leather couch. An _empty_ worn-out brown leather couch. A frown darkened the boss's face. "Where's Jane?" she demanded.

Grace quickly looked back at her computer. "Um, I think he said something about going to talk to Jorsten's wife…"

It was the wrong thing to say. Grace could _sense_ the boss start to bristle.

"What! I specifically told him—" Lisbon abruptly cut herself off, huffed the word "Great" and stomped into her own private office.

Grace heard the door slam hard enough to make the glass rattle. An instant later, Rigsby's worried eyes appeared over the edge of the upside-down file he was holding. He met Grace's gaze.

They exchanged winces.


	3. Northeast

Jane's phone chirped merrily inside his pocket, a pleasant harmony of bells and buzzing. He knew exactly who was calling, and smiled as he answered it. "Hey, Lisbon."

"Jane, what the hell are you doing?"

"Currently? I'm driving my car…"

A noise came from the other end of the line that sounded remarkably like thunder. Or the growling of a grizzly bear. Jane quickly pulled the phone away from his ear, worried about the volume-level of what was coming next.

Lisbon's voice, now sounding small and tinny, barked out of the speaker:

"You know what I mean! Why are you going to talk to Jorsten's widow? Didn't I _just_ get done telling you that Legal doesn't want you talking to victims' families? Not until the lawsuit's resolved. Didn't we have that conversation?"

"Uh, yes. Yes, we did."

"And you're blatantly disregarding it because…?"

"I need to ask her something."

Lisbon's sigh crackled over the speaker. Jane tentatively deemed it safe to bring the phone back to his ear.

"Couldn't you just have called her?" Lisbon asked, sounding weary. "You do less damage over the phone… _sometimes_ …"

"Eh. In person is always better."

Another sigh. "Just please, _please_ , whatever you do, do _not_ antagonize her. This is me begging you…"

Jane made a face. "'Antagonize' is such an ugly word…I like to think of it more as prodding for reactions. Raising pulses. _Needling_."

"I like to think of it as the reason we get more complaints and lawsuits than any other department," Lisbon told him flatly.

"That new lawsuit will get dropped," Jane assured her. "I guarantee it. Murdoch's just feeling bored and petty right now."

"Really? 'Cause he looked pretty pissed off from where I stood…"

"He's an over-actor. Eventually, he'll realize that this lawsuit makes him look like a vindictive, spiteful little man, and he'll drop it. Trust me."

"Trust you? Right, like anything good ever happens when I do that…"

Jane smiled at her grumbling tone. "You _can_ trust me, Lisbon. Implicitly."

Skeptical silence oozed through the speaker. Jane didn't let it bother him. When the time came, Lisbon would see that he had her back.

Jane navigated the Citroen through a turn and switched the phone to his left ear. "Hey, Lisbon," he said brightly, "Did you know that escaped horses _always_ head Northeast?"

"That's fascinating," said Lisbon, in possibly the least-fascinated voice Jane had ever heard in his life.

He grinned. "Isn't it?"

There was a pause, and then, "You know, she lives in the desert. It's _over_ a three-hour drive…"

"Desert's beautiful this time of year. And I like driving."

"Whatever," Lisbon muttered, giving up her last-ditch effort to dissuade him. "Just check in when you get back."

"Bye," he sang into the phone.

There was a dismissive grunt, a click, and the line went dead.

Jane smiled as he tucked the phone back into his pocket. He pressed down on the gas pedal and felt the little car surge beneath him. His smile widened.

_And, we're off…_


	4. The Widow

It really _was_ a lovely drive. Jane relaxed into it, soaking in the sight of other cars sparkling in the sunlight, and, when the scenery got long and empty, soaking in the sunlight itself.

By the time he reached his destination, his golden friend in the sky had dipped low. Red gravel crackled under the Citroen's tires as the little sports car snaked its way up a steep, curving driveway. The Jorsten house was perched exactly halfway up a rock-strewn hillside. Above and beyond lay barren, untamed wilderness.

There were no other vehicles parked outside, but Jane suspected at least one gleaming SUV was concealed inside the large, brand-new and ultra-white garage. He hadn't called ahead to warn Mrs. Jorsten of his coming. No fun in that. Catching people off-guard was always better. If the widow happened to be away from home on an errand, Jane didn't mind. He was happy to wander and wait.

Easing the car into park, Jane stepped out and drank in the full picture of the place:

Lilac Sunbonnets and vivid indigo Canterbury Bells winked at him from a small garden encircled by blood-colored rocks. The rest of the ground was dusty and cracked. The house itself was two stories high, modern, and well-built – an amalgam of red bricks and clean white aluminum siding. A large one-story addition had been seamlessly blended with the original architecture, probably less than a year ago. There were many big, square windows, and they all sparkled.

Warm breeze ruffled Jane's hair, sweet with the smell of flowers. He trotted up to the front porch and eyed his options: Knocker, or bell? He pressed the button and waited, listening curiously.

Chimes sounded inside the house – nothing too showy or overly-melodical, just a standard "ding-dooooong." From somewhere deeper inside, a muffled woman's voice called out to him:

"Coming!"

Jane smiled. He heard soft thumps of feet on a carpeted staircase, and multiple heavy locks sliding open. Then the door swung inward, and a pale blond woman stood before him.

Laura Jorsten regarded Jane somberly. "You must be the lawyer."

Jane lifted his eyebrows. "Uh, no actually. I'm with the CBI – Patrick Jane." He pulled out his ID and held it up.

Laura frowned at the badge. " 'California Bureau of…?'" Then a light seemed to dawn. "Oh, yes. That's right. I do remember speaking to an Agent Rigsby after I finished with Sheriff Hamilton…" She huffed a small, humorless laugh. "I've spoken to so many people these last few days…It's all blurring together. I must've totally forgotten you were coming out today. Unless – " Laura's whole body tightened, a new intensity lighting her mournful eyes. She searched Jane's face. "Do you have something on the investigation, is that why you're here? Did you find out who…did this to Paul?"

Something small wriggled inside Jane's chest at her raw desperation. Tiny, little inchworm of guilt. He cleared his throat. "Uh, no. Not yet. I just needed to ask you something, if that's all right."

The intensity faded. "Oh. Of course…Please come in." She stepped back, motioning for him to enter the large foyer.

Jane's head turned this way and that, soaking up details as he followed her in. There was a hat stand adorned with a rainbow assortment of baseball caps, each one bearing the logo for "Durenko Sports, Inc." A hodgepodge of shoes lined the wall: scuffed boots and sun-bleached sandals and well-worn Keds, all in three different sizes. The words "Welcome Home" beamed at Jane in pretty blue paint from above the doorway leading to the main house, and a small metal cactus sat atop a table, inviting keyrings.

Jane grinned at this last item. He pulled out his own car keys with a flourish, and slipped them onto the highest branch.

Laura led him past a staircase carpeted in plush emerald green, and into a neat, comfortable living room made to look twice as large by an enormous wall-mirror.

Jane immediately began prowling, examining pictures and knick-knacks, peeking through a doorway into the kitchen. Laura, on the other hand, sank wearily onto a blue leather sofa. She looked up at him with dull eyes. "You had some questions you needed to ask me, Mr…Jane, is it?"

"Yes," Jane answered, not tearing his eyes from the photos on the mantel.

A little brown-haired boy – obviously a young Paul Jorsten – sat side-by-side with a younger, equally brunette little girl in the first picture. They were grinning, arm-in-arm, dangling their bare legs in a blue-green swimming pool. In the next three photos, the same two children were putting some sort of superhero costume on a resigned-looking Golden Retriever, making castles in the sand, and waving from the top of a water slide.

Then there was a shot of a teenaged Paul standing next to his parents, looking gangly and awkward in his graduation cap and gown, a picture of Laura in a lacy white dress, surrounded by three lovely blond bridesmaids, and a very close-up photo of a chubby-cheeked baby, swaddled in pink.

Jane turned away from this last picture and faced Laura. "So…you're expecting a lawyer?"

She sniffled and dabbed at her nose. "Yes. Just someone from Paul's company. They called this morning and said they were sending one of their attorneys to go over all of his paperwork with me. Paul's insurance and his – his pension and…" Her voice wavered. She swallowed. "Just…that sort of thing…"

"Ah." Jane nodded absently, fingering something in his pocket. His gaze wandered into the kitchen. If he squinted, he could make out a chore list written in orange crayon, pinned to the refrigerator by alphabet magnets:

Dinner – Mommy  
Dishes – Mommy  
Laundry – Daddy  
Set the Table – Penny  
Garbage – Daddy and Penny

A wistful smile touched Jane's lips. His hand closed around the flat piece of metal in his pocket. He looked over at Laura. "Mrs. Jorsten, when we found your husband, he was carrying—"

"Mama?" A small, meek voice floated down from the top of the staircase.

Jane looked up and saw two soulful blue eyes, peeking out through the railing.

Laura quickly wiped her own eyes and smiled up at her daughter. "Hey, Munchkin. Do you need something?"

The little girl's gaze roved uncertainly onto Jane, who smiled "hi!" and waggled his fingers at her. She hesitantly returned the wave, and then looked back at her mother. "When are you coming back?"

Laura flicked a glance at Jane. "Oh, I just – Mommy just needs to talk to this policeman for a little while, ok? You go and play in your room, and I'll be up in just a few minutes."

The girl, Penny, stared down at them for another long moment. Then she turned and padded away.

Laura's falsely bright smile crumbled off her face. "I'm sorry about that. She just doesn't like to be alone, since…" Her voice trailed off.

"It's all right," said Jane.

Laura's eyes were still on the spot where her daughter had been standing.

"Uh, we could finish talking upstairs," Jane suggested, "If you want to keep an eye on her."

Gratitude softened Laura's pale face. It made her look younger. And less sad. "That might make her feel better," she agreed.

"And you, too?"

Laura acknowledged this truth with a small smile. Small, but real. "And me, too."

Jane gestured at the stairway. "Shall we?"

The widow stood, and together, they traipsed up the emerald steps.


	5. Grunt Work

Grace Van Pelt was going blind.

She didn't know this for a medical certainty, but surely after over seven hours of staring at a computer screen (minus one twenty-minute break for lunch at Starbucks), her optical health _had_ to be in jeopardy. Grace tilted back in her chair, stretched her arms out wide like eagle wings, and heaved a huge sigh.

The rest of the office was uncharacteristically empty. Rigsby had left over an hour ago to go check out Jeff Cardelli's alibi, Cho was interviewing a homeless man who lived in an alley next to the one where Paul Jorsten had been shot, Lisbon was in a meeting with Legal about Jane's lawsuit, and Jane himself was still off talking to Jorsten's widow. As usual, Grace was the only member of the team assigned to tedious, computer-based research.

It was boring, and it always took forever – but at least she usually _found_ something. Dry, bloodshot eyes, a stiff neck, and a sore back were all well worth it when she managed to uncover some tiny-yet-vital clue that would help close the case. Today, all Grace had uncovered was a big pile of nothing. And, judging from the sound of the approaching footsteps, she was about five seconds away from having to report these non-findings to her boss.

Grace quickly leaned forward and started reading again.

"How's it going?" Lisbon asked, coming to a stop behind Grace's chair.

Grace squinted hard at the screen, hoping fiercely for something to pop out and scream "IMPORTANT!" or "CLUE!"

Nothing did.

Shoulders slumping, Grace looked up at her boss. "Um, not that good. To be honest, I haven't really been able to find anything."

Lisbon looked slightly pained. " _Nothing_?"

Grace shook her head. "Sorry…"

"Did you check their bank accounts?"

"I checked their _everything_ ," Grace told her dejectedly. "No suspicious deposits or withdrawals. No significant debt, no unusual credit card activity, no accounts opened or closed in the last eight months."

"Custody issues?" Lisbon asked, sounding a little desperate.

"Standard joint custody, not in dispute by either party," Grace reported. "At this point, I'm basically going through his daily work log, line-by-line, hoping something will pop out."

The boss frowned. "You're looking through his work records?"

Grace nodded.

"But we don't have a warrant for his company's files, yet. Did you—"

"—Hack into their database?" Grace finished, a little smile making her lips twitch. "No." _Although, I probably could have_ , she added silently. "Jorsten kept his own personal copies of all the assignments he logged in at work. They were on the disks his wife gave to Rigsby."

"Ah…" Lisbon bent down to peer at Grace's computer. "So, these are the details of what he did every single day at work?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Lisbon's eyes scanned down the screen as she read, "'Service call one: Marketing Division: A printer will not print. Resolution: Printer was not plugged in. Call two: Accounting: A document will not print. Resolution: The computer was not connected to the printer…Call three: Sales Department: Computer will not turn on. Resolution: Computer _was_ on, monitor was not turned on…' _God_ , what boring job…"

Grace grimaced, thinking about her own assignment that day. Lisbon didn't seem to notice.

"You'd think it would be a little more stimulating, working at a company that makes dirt bikes and ATVs…" the boss commented. "Was it at all strange, for him to keep his own copies of this stuff?"

Grace shrugged. "He was a geek. Geeks back things up."

Lisbon made a small noise of acknowledgement, and the two women lapsed into silence, reading.

After a minute, Grace spoke up thoughtfully. "Well, I guess he could've been using it to analyze his own job performance…Or maybe he was just trying to see where he stood with the company. Whether they were trusting him with more important assignments or still just sticking him with the grunt work…Not that there's anything _wrong_ with grunt work," she added hastily.

Lisbon frowned, absorbing the information. "Did he ever _get_ any important assignments? Something other than a computer not being turned on or plugged in?"

Grace scrolled back through everything she'd read in the last hour. "Uhhhh…Here." She stopped and pointed at the screen. "About four weeks ago, he was in charge of installing new anti-virus and other security software for the Sales Division. And, a week after that, he did a file recovery for the CEO, Buck Hoskins, when his computer crashed."

Lisbon's eyebrow quirked again. "The CEO? That's pretty major…"

"Yeah, and both of those assignments were given to Paul because the head tech guy was out sick on the days those jobs needed to be done. Paul stepped up and volunteered."

"Hm." Lisbon mulled this over. "Do you think it's possible Paul Jorsten was trying to get a promotion?"

Grace chewed her lip. "Well, he didn't officially apply for one, but that doesn't mean he wasn't thinking about it…Or somebody else might've _thought_ he was…"

"Either way, it's an angle," Lisbon declared. "Let's go talk to some people at Durenko."

Grace looked hopefully up at her boss, hardly daring to believe. "Let's…you and _me_ go talk to them?"

Lisbon blinked. "Is that a problem?"

Grace practically jumped out of her chair. "No! No, not at all. Let me just…" She scrambled to save her work and shut down while Lisbon waited, fingers tapping.

The monitor blinked off. "Ready," Grace beamed.

Lisbon rolled her eyes and strode off through the forest of cluttered desks. Grace darn near bounded in pursuit, refreshed and recharged as if she'd just gotten a jolt from the Energizer Bunny.

Clearly, bringing back one of Starbucks' caffeine-loaded, non-fat triple mocha lattes for the boss had been the right move.


	6. Peanuts

Jane and Laura arrived upstairs to find Penny playing on her bedroom floor. As soon as the little girl saw them, she stood up, ambled over to her mother, and wordlessly wrapped her skinny arms around the woman's waist. The hug only lasted a few seconds; then Penny wandered back into her room, resuming her silent game of galloping tiny plastic horses in circles across the white carpet.

Jane and the widow walked a short distance down the hallway, where they could speak in private. Jane liked the spot because he could see into the bathroom and the master bedroom, too. The bathroom was a mess – wet towels bunched up on the floor, laundry overflowing from the lidded hamper. The bedroom was neat, but dark. Thick magenta curtains had been pulled across the windows, no light allowed in. Jane saw a large bed and a fireplace with a brass screen in front. He had to squint to make out a bottle of cologne on what must have been Paul's bedside table. There was still a faint whiff of it in the air – something musky and animal-based that Paul had probably started wearing in his late teens to impress some girl. A geek, trying to look like something else.

Jane watched Laura, watching her daughter play.

"She looks like her father," he commented.

Laura smiled a little. "She has his eyes – and the hair, of course."

Jane cocked his head, studying her. "You still love him."

She didn't deny it. "He's the father of my child. My first husband and my first love. I don't think anyone ever fully stops loving their first love."

"Maybe not," Jane conceded. "Do you think he killed Paul?"

Laura blinked. "What, Jeff?"

"He's been arrested."

The widow was already shaking her head. She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper for the benefit of the little girl down the hall. "No, no way. It's not possible. Jeff could never kill anyone…"

"He's a soldier," Jane pointed out. "So he could."

Laura's eyes darkened. "That's different. Killing in self-defense, or in defense of your country is one thing. But whoever killed my husband just… _killed_ him." Her lips trembled. "There wasn't a fight or a struggle. It was cold-blooded…And that's not Jeff."

"You seem very sure of that."

She nodded. "I am."

"What's the one reason, above all, that makes you so sure?"

"Penny," Laura answered at once. "Jeff…whatever issues he's going through right now, he loves his daughter. He would never put her through this."

"Hmm. That was the reason Jeff gave, too, when we were questioning him today. Well, Penny, and you."

"But you don't believe him…"

"Actually, I do. Which means I have to look elsewhere for your husband's killer. Which brings us to this – " Jane reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small bronze token. He held it out for Laura to see. "Paul was carrying this when he was murdered."

Laura took the token from Jane. Her eyes glossed over as she looked down at the twinkling metal. "Yes, Paul was…He was very proud of his sobriety."

"Ten years is a long time," Jane commented.

"Yes, it is…"

"So, when did he fall off the wagon?"

Laura's jaw dropped. "I – he…" She looked at the gleaming bronze one last time before closing it in her fist. When she met Jane's eyes, her shoulders seemed to deflate. "How did you know?"

"Peanuts," Jane told her matter-of-factly.

She frowned. " _Peanuts?_ "

"Peanut shells, actually. The bottoms of your husband's shoes were covered in them. And there's only one establishment in town that lets you throw the shells on the floor – Lucky's Tavern. So, when did it start? The drinking?"

Laura sighed. "About three weeks ago…I almost couldn't believe it – he'd always been so adamant about staying away from the stuff…" She laughed tearfully. "He wouldn't even eat rum balls. And then all of a sudden, out of the blue, he starts drinking? Not just the occasional Bud Light, either – _real_ drinking. Whiskey, vodka, shot after shot, like he was trying to lose himself…"

Laura looked up at Jane, stricken. "I'd never seen him like that before, you know? He was a different person. He was…"

"Violent?" Jane asked.

She shook her head adamantly. "No, never. It wasn't like that."

"What was it like, then?"

"He just…got sad. Paul was a happy soul, most of the time. Mr. Silver Lining. But when he started drinking, he would only talk about the bad things. A few times, he even cried. Sobbed like his heart was breaking in two, and there was nothing I could do to comfort him."

"And he wouldn't tell you what started the binge, even though you confronted him about it more than once," Jane guessed.

"He just told me he was sorry, said he needed some time to pull himself together. And I know he would have, if…if he'd gotten the chance…" Now Laura was the one who sounded like her heart was breaking in two. She put a hand up over her face.

"What were the bad things that he talked about, when he was sad?"

Laura sniffled, scrubbing fresh wetness from her eyes. "Oh, mostly he talked about his sister, Megan…"

"The one who died young?"

"Yes, that's right. It was a hit and run. Paul saw it happen…"

Jane chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Hmm…Did he mention anything else?"

"His parents dying…Jeff not being around for Penny lately…That's all, I think – " She frowned suddenly, remembering. "No, wait…he did speak about the accidents at work a few times, too."

Jane raised his eyebrows. "Accidents? At Durenko?"

"Not at the actual company," Laura clarified. "But there have been a few crashes involving their vehicles. One little girl died…I think it reminded him of Megan."

"How recently did these crashes happen?"

"Oh, the first was about four months ago, and the other two, a month or so after that. But it's nothing to do with what Paul does – " She caught herself, swallowing roughly. "With what Paul _did_. He was just tech support. A geek through and through, my Paul…" Laura tried to smile, but her shaky lips couldn't quite manage it.

Jane remained silent, letting the new information marinate. He was now quite convinced that neither Jeff Cardelli, nor Laura Jorsten, were guilty of murder, and that neither of them even knew anything significant about the crime. The Durenko accidents might be something, but that would have to be explored separately. He'd gotten all he could from the widow.

Jane cleared his throat, snapping the woman's attention back from where it had settled once again: on the little girl in the room down the hall. Laura blinked, refocusing on Jane.

"Well, thanks for your time." He flashed her a brief smile. "I expect you'll be hearing from – "

Jane was cut off by the doorbell chiming.

"That must be the lawyer…" Laura heaved a sigh and stared wearily at the stairs, as though she had forgotten exactly what they were. "I should…I should go get that…"

Jane reached out and placed a hand on her arm. He spoke to her in his best soft-yet-commanding tone: "Laura, it's late. You're exhausted. Tell him to come back tomorrow."

"That might be a good idea…" Her eyes wandered back to Penny.

"I can stay with her while you talk to him. Go," Jane urged. He nodded toward the stairway.

Laura watched him uncertainly for another moment. Then the doorbell rang again, more insistently, and she came to a decision. "Yes, I think I will just tell him to come back. It's ridiculous to start all that paperwork now. I haven't even started Penny's dinner yet…A-are you sure you don't mind watching her?"

Jane smiled. "Not at all."

Laura's eyes shone with gratitude. "Thank you…She just doesn't like to be alone. I'll only be a minute…" And she started down the hall, toward the staircase.

Jane watched her go, feeling extra-pleased with himself. He hadn't done a single thing to get himself yelled at, punched in the nose, or thrown off the property.

Lisbon was going to be so proud.


	7. Durenko

Patrick Jane and Grace Van Pelt were two very different travel companions.

Lisbon found herself ruminating over this during the hour-and-a-half long drive to Durenko Sports, Inc. She was used to going on interviews with Jane, who was always bugging her to let him have the keys. Van Pelt was just happy to be in the car.

Jane seemed to consider it his personal mission to keep Lisbon entertained. He was a walking, talking, quarter-tossing encyclopedia of bizarre facts, unusual conversation-starters, and impressive mind-reading tricks that made Lisbon's brain hurt when she tried to figure out how he pulled them off.

Van Pelt, on the other hand, was all business. She spent the entire trip verbally outlining everything she'd learned about Durenko, so that by the time they reached the company's headquarters, Lisbon's brain hurt for a different reason. At least she would be well-prepared for the upcoming interviews.

Lisbon pulled into the parking lot of a massive glass and steel structure that bore the name "DURENKO SPORTS, INCORPORATED" in backlit metallic letters. There was a bronze statue out front, a larger-than-life image of an ATV, ridden by two young, helmeted riders. One boy and one girl. Van Pelt gave the artwork a mildly interested glance as she and Lisbon entered the building.

Inside, the two agents were greeted by a smiling, middle-aged secretary whose hair was redder than Van Pelt's.

The woman instantly sobered at the sight of their badges. "This is about Paul, isn't it?"

Lisbon didn't beat around the bush. "We're going to need to speak with Buck Hoskins, and possibly some of the employees who worked with Paul."

The secretary nodded several times, resembling a bobble-head doll. "Of course, of course. Mr. Hoskins' office is on the fourth floor. I can take you up there…"

Lisbon and Van Pelt trailed after the secretary's clip-clopping high heels, following her through a wide open corridor that blazed with sunbeams. Halfway along it, a card table had been erected to hold a large picture of Paul. The rest of the tabletop was overflowing with flowers, hand-written notes, and candles. Several more bouquets had been placed on the floor.

"Did you know Paul Jorsten?" Van Pelt asked the woman striding ahead of them.

The secretary slowed down to walk alongside them. She smiled sadly. "A little bit. I saw him every morning when he came in, and again when he left at night. We'd chit-chat about movies, work, the weather…Just small talk. But he was always kind to me – _always_. He knew my name…" The woman's smile turned wry. "Even Mr. Hoskins has trouble remembering my name."

The three women stepped onto the elevator. Lisbon's stomach gave that familiar, rollercoaster swoop as they started to rise. She turned to the secretary. "You said you talked about work…Do you know if Paul was thinking of applying for a promotion, or if he was in competition for any kind of advancement at the office?"

The woman frowned. "No, nothing like that. Just the opposite, actually…"

Lisbon raised an eyebrow. "The opposite?"

"Well, our Head of Technical Services is retiring next month. They offered Paul the position, but he turned it down."

Van Pelt's face mirrored Lisbon's bafflement.

"He turned _down_ a promotion?" the younger agent asked. "Why?"

"Too many extra hours. At least that's what I heard. Paul already had a long commute, and he didn't want to lose any more time with his family…"

The elevator came to a lurching halt on the fourth floor, just as the secretary's pager began to buzz and vibrate against her hip. She looked down at the number, then back up at the agents. "I'm so sorry – they need me at the front desk – "

"We can take it from here," Lisbon assured her, stepping out into the hall. "Just tell us which office is Hoskins'."

The secretary held the elevator door open and pointed. "Straight that way, third door on the right." The pager started to buzz again. "If you need anything else – "

"We know where to find you," Lisbon said.

The woman nodded, and let go of the door.

"Thank you, Maureen," Van Pelt added, earning a small smile from the red-headed secretary and an impressed eyebrow-lift from Lisbon. Van Pelt really _had_ done her homework.

As soon as the elevator door clattered shut, Lisbon sighed. "Well, there goes the job competition angle…"

Van Pelt bit her lip. They started walking, but Lisbon's phone began trilling after about ten steps. She flipped the device open and held it to her ear. "Lisbon."

"Hey, boss." It was Rigsby. "Just wanted to let you know that Cardelli's alibi checked out – he and Rubenstein were looking for the horse all night, and they were never separated for more than twenty minutes at a time. There's no way Cardelli would've been able to sneak off, kill Paul, and get back to the search area in twenty minutes."

Lisbon made a sour face. The pulsing pain in her skull increased its volume from light rock to heavy metal. "Well, it was worth a try." She sighed. "You better call Cho and tell him to let Cardelli go. Van Pelt and I are at Jorsten's workplace, following up on a few leads." _Or non-leads, as the case seems to be_ , she added silently. "We'll meet you back at the office when we're done here."

"All right, boss. Will do."

Lisbon hung up and glanced over at Van Pelt.

"Bad news?" the young agent asked tentatively.

"More like no news," Lisbon replied. "Cardelli's alibi is solid, and we're back to square one. Again."

"Maybe Hoskins will know something," Van Pelt offered hopefully, nodding at the open office door up ahead.

Lisbon's response was a grumpy, skeptical look. Nonetheless, she turned off her phone, slipped it back into her pocket, and strode toward Buck Hoskins' office.

They still had an interview to complete before officially declaring this trip a three-hour waste of time.


	8. Mirror

Jane ambled over to Penny's room and poked his head inside.

A fantastic mural of Emerald City was splashed across one wall, while the others were lined with framed _Wizard of Oz_ movie posters and shelves that held a motley collection of everything from porcelain Dorothy dolls to a stuffed bear dressed as the Cowardly Lion. Jane even spotted a pair of little-girl-sized ruby slippers poking out from under the bed.

He smiled.

A small, stained-glass rainbow decoration hung in one window, beaming vivid splotches of color down onto the white carpet. Penny sat nearby, playing quietly. She stopped when she sensed Jane in the doorway. Two saucer-like blue eyes regarded Jane from underneath a neat line of appropriately copper-colored hair.

"Hi," he said softly. "I'm Patrick."

The blue eyes took note of the empty hallway behind him. A crease puckered the girl's forehead.

"Uh, your mom will be right back," Jane assured her.

The crease smoothed out. Penny returned her attention to the small jumble of plastic horses in front of her. She reached out to pick one up, but her hand suddenly hesitated, hovering over the pile.

She looked up at Jane again. "You want to play?"

He grinned. "Sure."

Penny selected a white stallion and held it out to him. "You can be him if you want."

Jane padded into the bedroom to accept his toy. "Thanks."

He settled himself cross-legged on a patch of carpet that was warm and golden with dying sunlight. Penny started fitting a microscopic leather saddle on the brown horse she'd chosen, while Jane held his own steed aloft for appraisal.

"Oh, he looks good and strong…Is he fast, too?" Jane asked.

"Pretty fast," Penny confirmed, without looking up. "Not as fast as her, though…" She pointed to a grey pony near the edge of the pile.

"Ah." Jane nodded sagely. He could hear the soft rumble of voices downstairs as he trotted his horse through fields of sparkling gold.

A foot to Jane's left was the rainbow patch of carpet – jewel-bright colors, streaming down from the stained glass in the window. He called out to Penny in a whisper: "Hey – look." When he had her eyes, Jane danced his horse through the light, watching its body flash ruby, topaz, emerald and sapphire. "A horse of a different color…"

Penny blinked at the display, her face as smooth and placid as any of the Dorothy dolls'. Then, with unexpected suddenness, she smiled.

The expression transformed her features, breathing pink life into pale cheeks, and bringing merry wrinkles to the corners of delighted blue eyes. A sharp pain lanced through Jane's chest as he watched the metamorphosis – bittersweet blade of things lost, memory of a little smile he'd never see again. But he had to smile back, in spite of the ache. And for that one short moment, he and Penny were mirror-images: Two sad souls, finding brief happiness. Two happy souls, surviving great sorrow.

They both jumped at the sound of the gunshot.

Penny gasped aloud, her fingers clenching around the brown horse. The little girl's blue eyes stretched dramatically into perfect "O"s. Her mouth started to do the same, and Jane just barely managed to get his hand over it in time. He looked fiercely into those startled eyes, commanding absolute attention. Penny stared back at him, an invisible thread of unblinking intensity crackling between them. Slowly, wordlessly, Jane pressed a finger to his lips.

_Shhhh._

There was no sound downstairs now. None. Just a long, eerie stretch of dead air. Jane and Penny stayed frozen on the floor – silent, breathing, listening.

After sixty seconds, Jane's buzzing nerves couldn't bear it anymore.

He leaned in close, his lips tickling against Penny's ear. "Get under the bed," he breathed. "Don't move, don't make any noise – do you understand?"

She nodded, and he lifted his hand away from her mouth. Penny obediently crawled into the cramped, shadowy space under her mattress, leaving the ruffly edge of the bed skirt swaying behind her. Jane peeked under the fabric. Penny stared out at him, her eyes wide and white in the darkness.

"Just stay here," he whispered. "I'll be right back."

Jane let the ruffle drop, and stood up. The plastic horses lay strewn across the floor. He quickly swept them under the bed with his foot. Then, swallowing dryly, he tiptoed into the hallway.

Plush carpet muffled every careful, creeping step. Jane's heart galloped wild, supercharged with adrenaline. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears. It took effort to keep his movements controlled. Halfway to the stairwell, Jane paused. He could hear footsteps downstairs. Heavy clomps of shoes striding boldly across hard floor, unconcerned about being overheard.

_Not_ good.

Jane swallowed and started inching forward again. He made it down the first two steps before stopping once more, this time because there was no need to go further. The living room wall-mirror told him what he needed to know:

Laura Jorsten was sprawled face-up on the floor near the staircase, a neat black hole in the center of her forehead. Her blue eyes were wide open, staring blindly at the ceiling, while wet scarlet pooled out behind her head, staining golden hair cherry red.

Jane instantly retreated from the sight.

Down below, the thumping footfalls continued, broken every few seconds by the creaking and slamming of various doors. Jane struggled to block out the frightening racket. Panicked static seemed to fill his brain, keeping him from doing what he did best: Think.

By the time he got back to Penny's doorway, Jane had forced a few slow, deep breaths, and his neurons were beginning to fire again. From the sound of things, there was only one person downstairs. An _armed_ person – that was a given. And, judging from the lumbering heaviness of the footsteps, it was most likely a man. An armed man, who was searching the house for something, because Jane could now hear drawers sliding in and out.

The man didn't care about what any witnesses might be seeing or hearing right now because he either A.) had no clue anyone else was in the house, or B.) didn't intend to leave anyone alive.

Jane, for one, didn't intend to stick around and find out. He sank to his knees and pulled up the edge of the dust ruffle.

"Come on," Jane whispered. "We have to go."

When Penny didn't move, he gently pulled her out and lifted her up by the armpits. She didn't struggle, but her body stayed violin-string tight, and Jane could feel her little heart trying to burst past her ribs.

"Keep quiet," he warned softly, before carrying her out of the room.

Jane's brown shoes sank like ghosts into thick green carpet. His breaths were fast and soundless. He was almost to the staircase when his arms suddenly started to shake. It frightened him, for an instant – his body doing something unexpected and out of his control. But then Jane realized it wasn't him at all: the little girl had begun to tremble violently, from the top of her copper head to the ends of her pink-painted toenails.

Jane held her tighter, and whispered, "Close your eyes."

Then he started to ease down the steps, graceful and silent as a feline. He tested each one, a little at a time, before stepping down on it fully. None of them had creaked on the way up, but he was forty pounds heavier now. Inch by inch, the vision of Laura Jorsten's body slipped into view. Jane made sure Penny's eyes were still squeezed tight. He couldn't trust her not to have a loud reaction.

His gaze flicked between the wall-mirror and the front door.

All clear, all clear.

He made it onto the fifth step. The door was only nine steps away. They just needed to get through it. Once they were at his car, Jane was sure they'd be home free…

He took another step.

_Six…_

Jane suddenly remembered his keys, hanging on that metal cactus. He'd have to grab them on the way out.

_Seven…_

His hand had started rubbing slow, soothing circles into Penny's tight back. Paternal instinct. Or maybe just _human_ instinct.

_Eigh –_

Jane's hip nudged the banister. The wood creaked softly, marring the vacuum of stillness. And then he realized –

The _stillness_.

Jane froze, wobbling in mid-step, his ears on hyper-alert. There were no more footsteps. No loud squeaks and crashes of doors being opened and slammed. No roll-thunks of drawers being searched. Nothing but Penny's soft breathing.

This wasn't the silence of "The bad guy is gone." This was the silence of "The bad guy is close, and about to pop out." Jane swallowed. He was still balancing on one foot. The doorway looked deserted, as did the living room.

All clear…

He started to put his foot down, but a sudden shadow of motion made his leg muscles seize. The reflection of a black-clad man rose up, seemingly out of nowhere, on the far side of the living room. Jane lurched backwards up the stairs.

The shooter must've been down on the floor, peering under the couch or one of the love seats. Invisible as a spirit, even to Jane's well-trained eye.

Jane beat a quick and quiet retreat. He carried Penny swiftly to the master bedroom, and eased her down onto the bed. The little girl huddled in the center of the massive, king-sized mattress, looking small and white atop a fluffy cloud of magenta comforter. Her eyes were still closed.

Jane swept aside the curtain and forced open the window's thick lock. Grimacing, he set both hands flat against the glass, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

Jane pushed harder. The window taunted him; it was painted shut, all along the bottom edge. Fairly hopelessly so. Jane could find something to break the seal, but it would take time, and the noise of the process would be like yelling for the murderer to come up and kill them. Easier to just break the glass…but again, the noise. And he would have to smash away enough of the shards to make sure he and Penny didn't mortally wound themselves on the way out. Which would take time.

They didn't _have_ time. The killer had to be almost done searching downstairs by now. If he didn't find what he was looking for…

Jane's eyes flicked back onto the open doorway. The windows in Penny's room were large picture windows, not meant to be opened. The one in the bathroom was even more useless – no addition on that side of the house. Just a long drop onto dry, rock-crusted earth…

Sweat broke out across Jane's forehead. He scrubbed a hand over his face, breathing hard. They didn't have a plan. They needed a plan. Jane's head swam with indecision:

Break the window or hide? Break the window or hide? Break the window or—

The banister creaked loudly, and the sound wiped his mind clean. Quick as a swooping bat in the night, he had Penny back in his arms, and was darting out of the bedroom.

Jane streaked across the open chasm of hallway and into the bathroom, where he hop-scotched across damp towels and discarded panties to avoid tapping his shoes on the tiles. Penny was unceremoniously deposited on the toilet seat while Jane frantically scooped armfuls of soiled laundry from the hamper. Then the child was being lifted again, up over the lid of the hamper and down inside, into the pocket Jane had just made for her.

Hands shaking, he scrambled to bury her under a spaghetti of white socks and brown pantyhose. Jane watched as Penny's now wide-open blue eyes disappeared in a flurry of falling linens, ignored the small stab in his racing heart, and moved to close the hamper lid.

Jane was just easing it shut the final inch, battling the wicker's natural desire to flex and creak, when the sharp trilling of a cell phone made him whirl around in fright. His brain caught up to the sound half an instant later, and Jane sagged – it wasn't _his_ cell phone. He hadn't been given away… _yet_.

Jane crept over to the bathroom door just as the ringing stopped.

"Yeah?" said a loud male voice out in the hallway, not far away at all. "No, I'm still here. Just finishing up…What? Hang on a sec, you're breaking up—" There was a pause, and then the voice came back, slightly more distant and muffled. "That's better, I can actually hear you now. Can you hear me?"

Breathing hard and silent, Jane picked up his weapon – an aerosol can of lilac-scented Glade from a shelf near the sink – and held it at the ready as he dared to peer out through the door crack.

Standing about halfway up the staircase, only the killer's head and shoulders were visible. His hair was dark brown and slicked back over his scalp. His back was to Jane. Oblivious to being watched, the man continued his loud phone conversation.

"No, it was no problem – she let me right in…" He laughed. "Yeah…"

Jane swallowed nervously. This was a _terrible_ hiding spot – a small, echoing white room, full of light. Even behind the door, Jane's presence stood out like a sooty fingerprint…

"I'm just tying up a loose end…I'll give you a call as soon as I'm done here…"

Jane gave the Glade a quick shake, trying to ready the contents. A few liquid droplets bounced feebly inside the can. He winced…

…And then he thought of something better.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, but we can talk about that later. Just let me finish up…"

High and dizzy with adrenaline – and watching with hawk eyes, to make sure the killer didn't turn around – Jane slunk back across the hall and into the master bedroom. Here, he quickly traded the air freshener for a heavy glass bottle full of Paul's cologne.

Thus armed, Jane slipped into his new and improved hiding place: the space behind the open bedroom door. With his eye glued to the door-crack, Jane had a perfect view of the bathroom. He could watch, and know when to act.

And, while the man outside was wrapping up his phone call, Jane carefully eased the cell out of his own pocket.

"Right, right, right, I know, but I told you, it'll be taken care of…Okay…"

The last few grains of sand tumbled down through the hourglass as Jane squinted at the keypad, silently debating: Lisbon or 911?

It wasn't a hard decision; Lisbon already knew who he was and where he was, and would have the nearest police unit mobilized after hearing only two whispered words from Jane: "Send help." So, Jane pressed Speed Dial One on his phone, a pained grimace taking residence on his face as he cursed the soft beep of each button.

"Okay, okay…Bye," said the man in the stairwell.

Jane raised the phone to his ear, and waited.


	9. The CEO

Durenko Sports, Inc. CEO Buck Hoskins was on the phone when Lisbon and Van Pelt arrived at his open office door.

"I'm just glad it worked out," he said, grinning into the receiver. "I was worried for a while, there…"

The CEO seemed not to notice the two women standing in his doorway, so Lisbon gave the metal door frame a sharp rap with her knuckles.

Hoskins glanced up briefly, nodded and smiled at the agents, and then continued on with his phone conversation. "No, I think it's better that way…"

Suppressing a growl, Lisbon dug a hand into her pocket. ID firmly in grasp, she cleared her throat significantly and held the badge out for Hoskins to see.

He regarded it casually, gave another nod, and then held up an index finger, signaling the agents to "give him a minute." Lisbon watched in mild disbelief as the man swiveled around in his chair, turning his back on the visitors while he laughed into the phone.

"Oh, absolutely…But there was that other issue we discussed…"

Lisbon and Van Pelt exchanged glances. _Seriously?_

The CEO chit-chatted for several more minutes before finally wrapping it up. "Uh-huh…All right, yeah, I'll let you go. Just remember to call when you're finished – I want a full report. All right. Bye."

Hoskins placed the receiver back into its cradle and turned languidly to face the agents. He favored them each with a smile that made Lisbon's skin want to peel itself off her body and slither away down the hall. "So, what can I do for you ladies?"

Lisbon fought down the urge to glare, and squared her shoulders. "Mr. Hoskins, I'm _Agent_ Lisbon and this is _Agent_ Van Pelt. We're with the California Bureau of Investigation. We need to ask you some questions about Paul Jorsten."

Lisbon watched carefully for any hint of guilt or reaction at the mention of Paul, but the CEO's face was smooth and placid as a lake on a day with no wind.

"Of course," he said calmly, gesturing the agents inside. "Please have a seat, and we'll talk."

There were two hard plastic chairs in front of the desk. Lisbon headed for the one on the far right. Van Pelt perched awkwardly on the seat nearest to the door. Hoskins watched the two agents get situated, and then settled deeper into his own chair – a plush, high-backed throne that no doubt featured lumbar support. Hands neatly clasped, cool as a crescent-shaped ice cube and still smiling that slimy smile, he waited for the questions to come.

Lisbon was suddenly, powerfully glad that Jane was not with her. He could not control himself around this type of person. It usually ended badly – like with a punch to the nose, an arrest, or them getting thrown out of the building.

"We understand Paul had been working here for about four years," Lisbon began, "Is that correct?"

Hoskins nodded. "That sounds about right."

"Did you know him personally?"

The CEO frowned. "A little…Enough to know he was a good person, and a wonderful employee. We were lucky to have him. Believe me, no one's sadder about losing Paul than I am."

"What about his wife?" Van Pelt asked boldly.

And right then, Lisbon saw it – just a flicker and then gone – an instant of nervous unease that passed over Hoskins' face before he quickly smoothed it out again.

"What about her?"

"Wouldn't she be sadder about losing Paul than you would?" Van Pelt reasoned, somehow managing to sound neutral and polite.

Lisbon bit back a smirk. She really did need to limit the amount of time Van Pelt spent around Jane.

Hoskins looked relieved. "Oh, yes. Of course she would. I only meant here, at the office. No one at _Durenko_ is sadder about losing Paul than I am."

Lisbon recalled the over-filled card table downstairs, and doubted the CEO's claim.

"Like I said, he was just a wonderful, excellent employee," Hoskins went on. "I could not have asked for a better worker."

"Isn't it true that he recently turned down a promotion?" Lisbon asked.

"Yes, our Head of Technical Support is retiring soon, so Paul was offered that position. He was definitely the best man for the job, but he couldn't accept it due to personal reasons."

"Any hard feelings about that? Him turning down a job you really wanted him to do?"

Hoskins shook his head emphatically. "No. Not at all. My employees are allowed to have lives outside of work. And we have another excellent candidate in line for the job, who is happy to take it."

Lisbon raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing the CEO. There was no sign of the nerves she'd spotted a few minutes ago. He seemed completely at ease. The promotion was a non-issue, just as she'd feared. There was definitely something here, though… _Somewhere_ …

"According to Paul's work log, he did a file recovery for _you_ just a few weeks before his murder," Van Pelt piped up unexpectedly.

There – flicker.

_Gotcha_ , thought Lisbon, suppressing a bona fide grin.

As before, Hoskins recovered almost instantly. "I'm not actually sure _who_ did that…I was out of the office that day." Then he frowned. "And, to be honest, I wasn't aware that any of Durenko's records had been released to the police…"

Van Pelt smiled, a little too sweetly. "Oh, Paul kept his own personal copies of his work records."

"Ah," was all Hoskins said in reply.

"So, you're saying you weren't aware that Paul did a file recovery on your computer?" Lisbon pressed.

"Well, like I said, I was out of the office the day after my computer crashed, so I didn't know who ended up working on it…But of course, if you say it was Paul, then obviously I believe you," he added quickly.

Lisbon did smile then, just a little. "Of course." She sat up straighter on the edge of her plastic chair. "Mr. Hoskins, we're going to need company copies of all of Paul's work records, as well as access to all of the computers and systems that he worked on in the weeks before his death…"

The CEO crossed his legs and returned Lisbon's small smile. "I would be more than happy to help you with that, agent…But, unfortunately, I can't."

Lisbon raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"We have very strict privacy policies," Hoskins explained, relaxing back into his chair. "The kind of access you're talking about would include allowing you to view unreleased prototypes and plans for future projects that we're working on here at Durenko. It's a very competitive industry – we can't afford our newest 'brain children' to fall into enemy hands." He chuckled. "So, unless you have a warrant…"

"We can get one," Van Pelt asserted, her eyes uncharacteristically cold.

Lisbon managed to come off more genial. "Sir, if it's a privacy issue, then there's no need to worry – all CBI employees are bound by a confidentiality clause. By law, we can't release any blueprints, intellectual property or prototype designs to an outside party."

The CEO's smile waned. "Ah," he said again.

"So, we could wait and get a warrant," Lisbon went on, "Or you could save us all an hour, and let us have access now. It's your call."

Hoskins shifted in his high-backed chair, making the springs underneath it creak. "Well, uh…I mean, as long as privacy isn't an issue…"

Lisbon waited, blinking expectantly.

The CEO hedged, fiddling with a pad of pink sticky notes on his desktop. "Then, uh…"

Lisbon could see the silent war in his dark eyes stretch out just a moment more, and then—

"By all means, please, have a look at anything you think will help." Hoskins' gaze flicked back and forth between the two agents. "In fact, would you like me to call our Tech Head right now, have him bring up a copy of Paul's work log?" He reached for the phone almost eagerly.

"No, that's all right," said Van Pelt, before he could pick it up. And again, she had that too-sweet smile on her lips. "I thought we'd start by taking a look at _your_ computer."

"Ah."


	10. Flame Red

Jane pressed the phone tighter to his ear, squashing cartilage while he waited for a ring that did not come.

"This is Lisbon. Leave a message." Heart lurching, he scrambled to stuff the phone back into his pocket before the loud "beep" could sing out over the speaker. Even muffled by layers of fabric, Jane could still hear it sharp and diamond clear. A black shadow slid across the wall outside, cutting through deep red beams of sunset, and Jane wondered if the killer had heard the beep, too.

But, no – the shadow darted away, disappearing into the bedroom next door. Mattress springs creaked, and something thumped against the carpeted floor.

"Little girl? Are you here?"

Jane winced at the false friendliness of the killer's voice. Jane's eyes flicked nervously onto the hamper over in the bathroom. The white wicker box remained still and silent.

"Little girl?" the shooter sing-songed again, louder this time. He made "girl" into a two syllable word, drawing it out: "Grrrrrrr-uuuulllll."

"It's okay," the man went on, "You can come out now…I'm with the police. Everything's fine…"

Jane's eyes were fixed on the hamper, twin blue laser-beams of intensity as he willed the lid not to open.

"Your mommy's waiting for you downstairs. She's got a big 'ole ice cream cone for you, so come on out…"

Ice cream? This guy was laying it on syrupy-thick. The phoniness of it grated against Jane's nerve endings like cat's claws screeching across an old-style green chalkboard, and his throat went dry, waiting to see if Penny would take the bait.

Three seconds ticked by without a whisper of sound from the bathroom. Children were excellent lie-detectors. But that sweet temptation – not the ice cream, but the promise of her mother – it might be too much…

_Trust your instincts, Penny_ , Jane silently begged. _They're always right…_

Over next door, plastic hanger-hooks scraped along a wooden rod. A closet being searched…The man had given up on calling for her. And the lid of the hamper hadn't so much as cracked open.

Jane exhaled shakily. _Good girl…_

His eyes strayed from the bathroom and he thought briefly of the phone in his pocket, wondering if he should try pulling it out once more. If it was still recording, maybe he could whisper something…

No. Better to be ready. Help would never arrive soon enough, anyway. By the time Lisbon checked her voicemail and discovered an odd, silent message from her consultant, this situation would already be resolved – one way or the other.

Right now, it was all up to Jane.

The dark irony of this fact was not lost on him as he gently eased the glass stopper from the cologne bottle: that he alone was the one responsible for this little girl's life, when he had so miserably failed to protect his own daughter…

A mighty crash, followed by the soft tinkle of broken glass, signaled the end of the search next door. The killer lumbered back out into the hallway, and Jane gripped the bottle tighter, his hands tingling and trembling, adrenaline-charged and ready.

But the man did not enter the master bedroom next. Instead, the shooter tromped into the bathroom and began to prowl the porcelain and tile cavern. Jane watched through the crack, not breathing or blinking, as the killer passed within inches of Penny's hiding place.

Short dark hair slicked neatly back, dressed in an expensive and well-tailored grey suit, the man looked like a lawyer from the top of his overly-moussed head to the toes of his shiny black shoes. He didn't look like someone who should be poking through the folds of a still-damp shower curtain with the muzzle of a gun.

Abandoning the tub area, the killer moved on to a small linen cupboard. He rooted around inside it, carelessly tossing crisply-folded blue towels to the floor. Then, with a frustrated grunt, the gunman gave up on that, too, and turned instead to the hamper…

Chemicals flooded Jane's system, released from his lizard brain, making him dizzy as dendrites crackled and buzzed, waiting for the impulse to act.

_Not yet_ , he told himself fiercely. _Just hold on…_

The man in the bathroom stared long and hard at the hamper. He tilted his head, considering it. He used the tip of the gun to raise the wicker lid, and then began to nose around through the top layer of laundry, his deadly metal weapon nudging under silken bras and purple polka dot panties…

Jane's nerve endings twanged. He had to fight to keep from bouncing on his heels. _Get ready…_

With a sigh, the killer swatted the lid closed. Something inside Jane wilted, weak and wobbly with relief. Over in the bathroom, the shooter started to turn away from the hamper, and then suddenly turned back, delivering a swift kick to the middle of the basket.

Brittle wicker crunched under the impact. Jane flinched. Not even the tiniest whimper escaped Penny's lips. Shrugging, the killer strode out of the bathroom, and into the hallway.

Jane froze, melting seamlessly into the shadows behind the bedroom door. He breathed silent lungfuls, oxygenating his racing blood. He kept his eyes wide, even though they started to sting. If he and Penny got through this, Jane would buy strawberries for the entire CBI building. He would buy Lisbon another pony. He would buy her a _car_. He would-

The shooter arrived in the open doorway, and even Jane's wildly-flitting thoughts seemed to freeze, suspended in mid-air like floating dandelion seeds on a lazy summer afternoon.

The killer stepped inside the master bedroom. Jane stopped breathing. The open door inched wider, shrinking Jane's already-tight hiding space. He sucked in his stomach, and the doorknob halted a few millimeters from his vest button. The man with the gun prowled.

Jane listened as the killer pulled out dresser drawers, pawing roughly through tubes of lip gloss and nests of folded black socks. The shooter gave up, and moved on. Golden chains jingled as he shifted the fire screen aside and peered up the blackened chimney. Finding nothing, the man got down on the floor to look under the bed. Jane's lungs started screaming. His hand was slippery, on the cologne bottle. He could see the dirt-scratched bottoms of the killer's shoes...

The shooter got back up and wandered into a small closet. Jane's eyes were watering from the not-breathing. He blinked frantically to clear them. The shooter wandered back out again, and stood in the middle of the room, absently tapping the gun to his thigh.

_Be done_ , Jane commanded silently. _No more looking. Be done._

The killer took a last glance in the waste basket, shrugged, and headed for the door.

_That's it…Yes…_

A soft creak of wicker drifted through the air. The man paused. Jane's heart dropped four stories.

_No…_

Head cocked like a Spaniel, gun poised, the shooter started striding back toward the bathroom. Jane couldn't, _wouldn't_ let it happen – he hurled the glass stopper across the room, where it met the fireplace bricks with a satisfying CRACK.

The killer whirled. He instantly began stalking in the direction of the new, louder noise.

Three steps into the bedroom, a heavy oak door bombarded him. Jane leapt out of the shadows as the other man staggered back.

Recovering from the shock of the blow, the killer started to raise his weapon…and got a face-full of cologne.

"Son of a _bitch_ …"

The words were spat, bubbling out past the shooter's lips in a spray of vile oil. Rubbing fiercely at his tight-squeezed eyes with one hand, the killer fired off a round with the other, but Jane had already danced out of the way.

"Jesus," the man coughed, spitting on the carpet again. He pointed the gun in random directions while struggling to open weeping, bloodshot eyes.

Jane flung the empty bottle against the opposite wall, using its crash as a distraction. The gunman turned wildly. He fired at the sound. The muzzle flared. Jane crept across the carpet, begging the floorboards underneath not to creak.

The shooter squeezed off another shot. Again, fire flashed bright at the weapon's muzzle. This time, a single spark flew astray. There was a frightening sound like a gas stove lighting up – _fump_ – and then, before Jane could react, before he could even _think_ , the gunman's oil-drenched head was suddenly, shockingly engulfed in yellow-white flames.

The screaming was awful. Jane tried to run, but the shooter stumbled in front of him, blocking the path to the door. Inhuman shrieks tore from the man's throat as he smoked and burned, staggering in wild lurches, beating at his own face, a whirlwind of noise, heat and light. The man crashed against a dresser, knocking it over and spilling out Diamond brand matches, silver nail clippers and Mary Kay hand cream.

Jane ducked and backpedaled, barely avoiding his enemy's panicked movements. He could _feel_ the rush of the heat as he scrambled one way, then another, before finally managing to dart past.

The hallway was hazy, and filled with the persistent squeal of a smoke detector, pitched high in earsplitting harmony with the burning man's continued screeches. Jane's face twisted against the racket as he scrambled into the bathroom. He threw open the hamper lid, dug until he found Penny's pale, shocked face, and then shouted to be heard over the unbearable cacophony:

"Let's go! Come on!"

Jane reached out his hands to her, and Penny unearthed her own arms to latch onto his. She let him lift her up and out, showering the floor with more random bits of damp and dirty laundry. Jane stumbled over the lumpy piles as he carried her to the doorway.

His mind fixated on escape, he was unprepared for the heart-stopping scream Penny let loose right next to his ear. Jane followed her eyes sideways, and had to bite back a scream of his own:

The human torch had managed to extinguish himself. Very much alive and somehow still on his feet, the killer lurched toward them blindly, cutting off their path to the stairway. His face was a Halloween mask of red and black, bubbled skin and a mottled, hairless scalp. Smoke continued to pour off of him, making the detector wail and filling the air with a sickening scent of barbequed meat.

Unable to see, the shooter pointed his gun in their general direction – not the same gun he'd had before, but a backup weapon.

Unable to speak properly past charred and blackened lips, the man hissed, "Oooo die, hucker…"


	11. Going Down

Rigsby yawned hugely as he meandered into the office. Slanted rays streamed in through the windows, making everything glow scarlet. Cho sat alone at his desk, reading a file.

"Hey," said Rigsby.

"Hey," Cho replied, not looking up.

Rigsby checked his watch, then squinted into the blinding sunset. "I can't believe the sun's going down…"

"Unlike how it usually stays up all night," Cho stated flatly.

"I meant _already_. I can't believe it's going down _already_. It used to stay light 'til at least eight o'clock."

Cho said nothing. Rigsby wandered over to his friend's desk. "What're you working on?"

"Cardelli's arrest report."

"You let him go, then?"

"Yep."

"Huh." Rigsby started to fidget, nudging paperclips around on Cho's desk.

"You smell like horse," Cho commented.

Rigsby frowned. He pulled his shirt collar to his nose and sniffed deeply.

Cho gave him a flat look.

Rigsby stopped sniffing the shirt. "So, uh…any luck with the homeless guy?"

"He saw a black Crown Vic pulling out of the alley at ten-thirty on the night of the murder."

Rigsby considered this. "That's pretty close to the estimated TOD. It could be something. Did he get a plate number?"

"No."

"Did you tell Lisbon about it?"

"Her phone's off."

"Oh."

Cho turned a page and kept writing.

Rigsby glanced over at the empty couch. "You heard anything from Jane?"

"No."

"Yeah, he's probably still on his way back. It's like, a three-hour drive…"

Cho said nothing.

Rigsby stopped fiddling with the paperclips. "So, uh, you want to go get something to eat?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

Cho continued to stare at the report for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Okay."

Rigsby grinned.

XxXxXxX

The gunman pulled the trigger at the exact same instant Jane dove for the master bedroom.

The bullet shrieked by Jane's left ear, passing so close and so loud it took half his hearing with it. He half-ran, half-staggered into Paul and Laura's room, their daughter still in his arms.

Jane slammed the bedroom door tight – a feeble moment's worth of extra protection – thrust Penny into a corner behind the shield of the bed, and then grabbed the first suitable object that crossed his eye-line: a shiny brass wastebasket.

Balls of crumpled white paper fell like hail from the trashcan as Jane hefted it high and chucked it at the closed window.

The gleaming can exploded right through the glass and landed outside, on the roof of the addition. The wastebasket wobbled on its side for an instant, and then began to roll, tumbling out of sight off the steep edge of shingles.

Jane rushed forward and started kicking away glass shards that still clung to the window frame, barely aware that he was tromping all over the first draft of Paul Jorsten's eulogy.

Out in the hall, there was a low groan as something slapped heavily against the closed door. A hand, searching for the knob…

Jane stopped kicking and raced over to grab Penny. It was hard, taking the time to lower her carefully through that jagged hole with the sound of a rattling doorknob loud in his good ear. But he managed it – Penny was deposited on the rough grey shingles outside without so much as a nick. She clung there, huddled and staring at him, until Jane ordered her to climb down:

"Just get to the edge and wait for me to help you," he instructed, as the door burst open behind him. Two shots rang out, missing high and wide.

Penny flinched at the noise and began a rapid descent, moving sideways like a crab along the treacherously slanted surface. Jane scrambled out after her. He sliced his right palm on a crescent shard in his haste to escape the third shot, and crimson instantly blossomed from the wound, followed by a flash of pain that made him gasp. Dripping red, Jane edged his way down the incline.

Broken glass crackled under his shoes for the first several feet, but then he was free of it, and gritty shingles clung firmly to his soles, allowing him to be steady and swift the rest of the way down.

Palm throbbing, Jane arrived at the spot where Penny waited. Her blue eyes flicked fearfully back and forth between Jane and the twelve-foot drop.

"It's all right," he assured her. "Take my hand, I'll lower you down."

Jane proffered his uninjured left hand, and, after a swallow and a shiver, Penny took it.

The instant his fingers closed around hers, Jane had a wild urge to let go. Her hand was _freezing_ , and it shot a bolt of horror right through him – memory of another tiny, ice-cold hand in his. Jane squeezed his eyes against the flashback, fighting the impulse to fling Penny's hand away.

The wave passed in half a second. Then Jane was back in the here and now, lowering a copper-haired child off the edge of a roof. Both of her hands were gripping his, now, small, chilly fingers digging into his skin. The weight of her tugged at his shoulder socket, and Jane had to reach out with his bloody hand to steady her.

When he was bent at the waist, hanging as far over the precipice as he could without falling, Jane told the dangling girl to let go.

Fresh anxiety flooded her blue eyes. Her fingers bit harder into his flesh. She was still a good six feet off the ground. Jane could see her bare toes squirming…

"It'll be all right," he repeated, staring right into those terrified eyes. "I promise. Just let go."

Cold, clutching fingers released him. Penny hit the rocky dirt below with an audible thump. Brown dust clouded the air as she struggled back to her feet, undoubtedly sore but not seriously injured.

Jane withdrew his upper body from the precarious edge and began to turn around, preparing for his own drop to the earth.

A sharp, thunder-crack assaulted his right ear. Jane hunkered low on instinct, cowering against sandpapery shingles while his eyes searched wildly. He spotted a dark silhouette shifting behind the broken window, and the brief metal flash of a gun.

It was only then that Jane registered the pain – a strange burning across his hip, like a line drawn with a fire poker.

Shot – he'd been shot. He was –

Another bullet hit the roof, mere inches from Jane's clinging fingertips, exploding rough bits of wood and shingle right in his face.

Jane's lizard brain took over. He pitched himself off the roof.


	12. Voicemail

Lisbon made a face. She had to force her throat muscles to swallow, when every instinct said "SPIT." The latest offering from Durenko's ancient coffee-maker tasted like a combination of Vick's cough syrup and charcoal. Lisbon dropped her still-full cup into the nearest trash can and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

Van Pelt was still upstairs, hard at work analyzing Buck Hoskins' computer. The CEO had remained in his office for a while, pacing restlessly and trying to steal glances over the young agent's shoulder. Eventually, he had wandered off, and Lisbon had followed.

Right now Hoskins was standing alone in the middle of Durenko's overcrowded lounge area. He had started to make a phone call about twenty minutes ago, but stopped when he noticed Lisbon watching. Chattering employees filled the rest of the room, gathered in cliquish clusters that reminded Lisbon of her high school days.

The jocks were loudly reliving a recent Kings game. The gossip crowd was whispering about Paul's murder investigation. The geeks--by far the largest group--were exalting in an episode of _Clone Wars_. All of them had been asked to step away from their computers.

Van Pelt had put in a call to CBI Headquarters, requesting a team of tech specialists to help her wade through Durenko's data. Lisbon didn't want any files to "accidentally" get deleted before the team arrived.

Hoskins wandered over to a window and gazed out at the sunset.

Lisbon sighed. She'd better call Rigsby and Cho, let them know what was going on. Have them pull up anything they could on Hoskins…

But her phone's screen remained blank and dark, even after she started dialing. Lisbon remembered she had turned it off for the Hoskins interview. She poked the power button.

There were two voicemail messages waiting for her. The first was from Cho, succinctly detailing the findings of his interview. The second was from Jane's number, but…

Lisbon frowned, pressing the earpiece closer.

All she could hear was dead air, an indistinct voice, a few thumps, and more dead air. Then the recording stopped.

Lisbon turned up the volume and replayed the message. This time she could tell the voice was male, and definitely not Jane. There was a weird, sing-song quality to it, but she couldn't make out any words. The whole thing was very muffled.

Lisbon stared at the phone in her palm. Had Jane even meant to call her, or had the phone's buttons been inadvertently pressed inside his pocket? It sounded like a misdial.

Once, a few years ago, Lisbon's cell had dropped under her car seat on the way to work. Unbeknownst to her, the phone had dialed her home number. Lisbon had returned to her apartment that evening to find a lengthy message on the machine of her own voice, singing along with the Spice Girls.

She'd decided then and there that technology didn't get much creepier than that.

If this was another case of "cell phones with minds of their own," it should be easy enough to find out. All she had to do was call Jane, and ask him about the mystery message.

Only, she couldn't.

Because Jane's phone went straight to voicemail.


	13. Broken

Flailing as he free-fell, Jane barely managed to get his feet under him before he hit the ground. Hard.

There was a gruesome "snap" as his shoes slammed into the earth, followed by the most intense physical agony he could recall in his lifetime. Jane immediately fell over sideways, groaning and curling in on himself like a fetus while electric bolts of pain radiated from his right leg.

Waves of cold sickness washed over him. Jane squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face into the dirt.

Swallowing over and over, he fought back the bile until he could breathe and open his eyes without needing to retch.

Panting, Jane forced himself to sit up. He didn't look at the leg. Didn't need to – it was broken in at least one place between ankle and knee. Jane looked instead at Penny, who was hovering over him. The little girl danced from foot to foot, her arms outstretched toward him, not sure if she should touch.

Another gunshot cracked overhead, and her whole body jerked.

Jane swallowed again and gritted his teeth.

Shifting slightly, he tried to rise onto his left knee. Black stars littered Jane's vision. His upper body swayed.

Icy fingers closed around his left hand, pulling it up off the dirt. The connection was grounding – a lifeline of steadiness in the dim, spinning world. Jane clutched at it, breathing and blinking until the stars fell away, and he could see Penny standing there, holding his hand in both of hers.

On the next try, Jane was able to get up onto his knee.

The pain in his right leg was still at a constant, screaming pitch – a brutal sledgehammer blow held out long, like a piano note. It refused to ebb, wouldn't give him even the smallest drop of mercy, and Jane could feel tears swimming in his eyes as he tightened his hand around Penny's…

_One…_

_Two…_

_THREE!_

With a clumsy thrust that put weight on his bad leg – even though he had tried _so_ hard not to – and some surprisingly powerful tugging from Penny, Jane managed to stand upright.

The bad leg screamed louder than ever. Jane instantly drew it up off the ground, teetering on his left leg while he sucked great gasps through his nose. More sweat poured off of him, but his balanced steadied.

Penny gripped his hand, awaiting the next move.

They didn't have to go far.

Jane tried to remind himself of this as he began to hop awkwardly along, half leaning on the little girl for support.

_Not far – Not far – Not far –_

His brain repeated the phrase mechanically on each bone-jarring impact.

_Not far –_

When they got close to the garage, he leaned on that, too, painting red handprints across the snow-white siding.

Jane's stomach rolled at the sight of the ugly smears, the metal smell of the blood.

_Not far…_

Just to the car, he promised himself. It didn't matter _whose_ car at this point, since Jane's keys were still hanging on that cactus inside the house. Fortunately, he had met some interesting people over the years, who'd taught him interesting things. Hot-wiring a vehicle was no problem.

They just had to _get_ there.

( _Not far_ )

Jane's still-oozing hand slipped off the garage. He leaned extra-hard on Penny, who wobbled under the strain. _Don't fall_ , he commanded his body, and it listened.

They kept moving.

Jane forced his mind onto the task that lay ahead. He concentrated, picturing the wires in his head, which ones to cut apart, the bright happy spark and throaty rev when he touched them together.

His slick fingers fumbled again, losing purchase. Jane looked up. He'd reached the end of the garage. He stopped for a moment, breathing and dripping sweat. Penny halted alongside him.

Just around the corner, the cars were waiting. In a moment, he would be able to see them.

Jane braced himself to start hopping again. A ringing noise distracted him. Shrill, tinny shriek of bells, oddly hollow in his one good ear.

Cell phone.

But not _his_ cell phone. The ring was too far away, and much less musical than Jane's own.

Jane shivered in the warm desert breeze. He leaned ever-so-slightly forward and peeked around the edge of the garage.


	14. Truth

There were two cars in the driveway – Jane's own blue Citroen, and a black Crown Victoria parked behind it. As Jane watched, a man in a dark suit and sunglasses emerged from the second car, casually plucking an ear bud from his ear as he answered his phone.

"Yeah?"

The man in the suit frowned. His neatly-trimmed salt and pepper mustache twitched.

" _What_? Brody, I can't understand you at all…Pronounce your words…"

The man shifted, revealing the telltale bulge of a gun under his suit jacket. He started to turn toward the garage…

Jane jerked out of sight. His heart thudded wildly.

This man was not their friend. He had arrived in the same vehicle as the killer. He had been sitting in the Crown Vic, listening to his iPod while he waited for the killing to get done. He was probably on the phone with the killer right now…

"Seriously, I can't tell what you're saying...'A hand?' Is that…No? 'A _man_?'"

Jane looked down at Penny, his mind racing. They weren't going to make it to the cars.

He turned painfully, pulling Penny along with him, and started hopping back the way they'd come. His movements were faster now, more athletic. A fresh rush of adrenaline had kicked in, allowing him to disconnect from some of the pain.

Dust was poofing everywhere, stinging his eyes and clinging to his teeth in gritty powder. Penny was hurrying along beside him, sending up a cloud of her own.

The line of red handprints on the garage bounced crazily before Jane's eyes. The blood was a neon arrow, a flashing sign – a trail easier to follow than footprints in snow.

Jane didn't know what to do about it…And then, he did: They'd made it behind the garage, and there was a door here. Jane teetered to a halt. He reached out with his injured hand and smeared more congealing blood along the wall, and onto the doorknob itself.

Torn skin got rubbed roughly in wrong directions. Blood of a fresher variety leapt to the surface of the wound. The brass doorknob started to gleam like red cellophane.

The door itself was locked, but that was for the better. Jane finished his grisly paint job and turned to face the steep, rock-littered incline that rose up behind the Jorstens' property.

He led Penny toward it.

They climbed like animals, Penny on all fours, Jane on all threes, clawed fingers grappling at loose stones and sediment. Twice, the little girl lost purchase, starting to slide before Jane grabbed her. Once, he lost purchase and she had to grab him.

Three-quarters of the way up the treacherous hillside, Jane heard the mustache man start to shout obscenities. No bullets followed, though, and Jane reached the crest unscathed with Penny by his side. The ground before them stretched long and flat, a breathtaking expanse of empty desert. In the distance, Jane could see the hazy outline of a mountain range. He continued to crawl along until he was sure they couldn't be spotted from below, then collapsed sideways, heaving.

Penny sat watching as he patted around with his dirt-and-blood caked hand, searching for the phone in his pocket. His fingers came up empty and confused. Jane hefted himself back into a sitting position and looked down.

He was genuinely surprised to find a dark stain across his hip. The fierce, relentless agony of his broken leg had obliterated all other pain; he'd entirely forgotten about getting shot – the very thing that had caused his reckless leap from the rooftop in the first place.

Wincing, Jane peeled at the sodden fabric of his pants. The wound was still bleeding, but not badly. It wasn't deep – just a graze. He delved deeper into his torn pocket, and small, mysteriously sharp objects poked at him. Jane pulled them out.

Jagged bits of blood-smeared plastic sat on his palm, sparkling like rubies. Jane could make out a greenish shard lined with circuitry, a blackened fragment of ruined liquid-crystal display, and a soft, rubbery rectangle marked "7 PQRS." Jane stared at them.

He stared, and wondered how astronomical the odds were that a bullet, fired blindly, would not only hit him, but do so in such a way that it also struck and demolished the cell phone in his pocket.

Life really _was_ a million-to-one…

A loud thump met Jane's good ear and echoed across the desert. Another, louder thump followed, and then a third. Mustache Man, trying to break down the garage door.

Jane tucked the phone remnants into one of his vest pockets and struggled up on his left leg. He reached for Penny's hand.

Down below, the thumping ceased, to be replaced by a single gunshot that made Penny's fingers clench around his.

Their enemy had given up using his body as a battering ram and decided to just shoot out the lock. Which meant, they were running out of time.

Jane gave the little girl's arm a tug and started hopping. He almost fell over when she didn't follow.

Penny's hand was still locked with his, but she stood rigid and straight-backed with her bare heels dug into the desert dirt. Her head was turned back the way they'd come.

"Come on, Penny," Jane urged in a whisper.

She looked up at him, something fierce glinting in her eyes. "We can't leave Mommy."

Jane suppressed a wince. He sighed and eased himself back down onto his good knee, so that he and Penny were eye to eye. He cupped her face in both hands.

"Penny, I have to tell you something, and I need you to keep quiet. Can you do that? Keep very quiet, no matter what I say?"

She nodded hesitantly. His blood smudged her cheek.

"Your mother is dead—"

Tears flooded Penny's eyes. She started to struggle, trying to pull away from him. "No, no—"

"Yes. Those men back there—"

"No!" She fought harder, clawing at him, but Jane wouldn't let her go.

"Shh, shh, listen: those men back there killed her, and if they find us, they will kill us, too. Do you understand?"

Her head was twisted away from him, staring in the direction of the house. Jane gently turned her face forward again. Penny's bottom lip wobbled. Fresh tears poured down her cheeks, dripping steadily off her chin. At last, her eyes met his.

"Penny? Do you understand?"

She nodded once, and then her face crumpled, dissolving in silent sobs.

Jane heaved himself up onto his good leg. His left ear was still plugged and deaf, but his right ear could hear crashes and slams and heavy thumps – the satisfying sounds of a garage being torn apart in frantic search.

He took Penny by the hand and started hobbling across the long, dusty stretch of earth, scorched brick-red by the dying sun.

Penny stumbled blindly after him, no resistance left.


	15. If He Only Had a Brain

Aaron Brody was a waste of breathable air. Nick had always thought so.

Smug, spoiled, sloppy and stupid, Brody had systematically tanked every assignment his father had ever given him. He tracked a trail of dog crap wherever he walked, and left the brown smears behind for other people to mop up.

It had never really bothered Nick, because it hadn't been his problem. Nick was a _valued_ member of the organization. He cleaned up messes of a very different variety, and did it so well that he was nearing the status of indispensable.

And then, about eighteen months ago, _it_ had happened: some kind of royal screw-up in the prostitution ring. The ring _Brody_ was supposed to be in charge of. Nick didn't know all the details, but he knew there'd been arrests, and that some of the charges had not gone away.

That very same afternoon, Nick's phone had rung. An hour later, the former lone-wolf mercenary was meeting his brand-new partner, Aaron Brody.

Because the boss's son didn't get fired. The boss's son got "reassigned." Because Aaron Brody wasn't a complete idiot-drunk-on-moron-juice – no, he was just a "talented young man still looking for his niche."

"You're the best at what you do," the boss had told Nick. "Take him under your wing. Teach him."

And Nick had said, "You got it."

Because you didn't say "no" to the boss.

So now here Nick was, a year-and-a-half later, holding the figurative mop and bucket.

The fact that Aaron Brody wouldn't be breathing air for very much longer was of little concern to Nick.

Having to tell Mason Brody that his son had been killed on the job? _That_ would be a little more worrisome. But Nick figured that vivisecting the guy responsible for Brody's torching would win some points with the boss.

It was almost a shame. If Nick had a choice, he'd probably leave the guy alone. Any guy with the stones to burn another man's face off was all right in Nick's book.

Unfortunately, thanks to Brody's epic mishandling of the situation, not one but _two_ witnesses had likely seen Nick's face while he was sitting out in the car. Letting them live wasn't an option.

How many times had he told Brody to be absolutely _sure_ of who was in the house before taking action?

"She's alone," the idiot had boasted, "I called her myself. She told me she would be free this afternoon. Nobody there but her, and maybe the kid."

There had only been one car in the driveway when they'd pulled in. One car, one person home. It _did_ stand to reason…

But it never hurt to be one hundred percent certain. If Nick had gone inside, he might've said to the wife, "Nice car."

And she might've said, "Oh, it's not mine."

A little subtle detective work, and they wouldn't be in this debacle. But Brody had wanted to go in alone, prove he was a big shot or something. Brody had _insisted_. And you didn't say "no" to the boss's son.

Nick had discovered the wife's _actual_ car, a minivan with plates that read "SOCR MOM," during his fruitless search of the garage.

Now, as Nick was finishing his sweep of the house, he heard Brody's weak, raspy voice float down the stairwell:

"Ick? Icky…?"

Nick reluctantly tromped back up to the master bedroom. "I'm here, Brode."

Brody lay curled on the floor, next to the bed. He was breathing hard. Fluid leaked from one corner of his mouth. Nick couldn't tell if it was drool, or something else.

"I…hink I eed…ockter," Brody managed faintly. "I eed…go…hosstital…"

"I'm going to take you to the hospital," Nick told him, "Just as soon as I take care of the witnesses. It won't be much longer. Okay?"

"…Tay," Brody mumbled. He curled a little tighter on himself, wheezing through damaged airways, shivering from shock.

Nick turned away from the sight. He padded down the green carpet steps and out the front door, with no plans of returning.


	16. Before and After

Lisbon's frown deepened as she waited for the beep. "Hey, Jane. It's Lisbon…Uh, did you try to leave me a message? I think your phone might have dialed mine by mistake…Call me when you get this, okay? I'll leave my phone on this time."

Lisbon hung up, but didn't put the phone away. Jane should be well on his way back from the widow's house by now. He couldn't still be there…could he?

Not wanting to bother Van Pelt (even though she probably had the Jorstens' home number memorized), Lisbon called Information. The operator put her directly through to Laura Jorsten's landline.

It rang…

…And rang some more.

Lisbon counted fifteen long, buzzing tones. No one answered, and no machine asked her to leave a message. Finally, Lisbon disconnected the call.

Buck Hoskins was still over by the window, watching the sun slip away.

_What about his wife?_ Van Pelt had asked.

And that uneasy flash across Hoskins' face – _What about her?_

A shiver danced its way down Lisbon's spine.

Before, she might've accused herself of paranoia. She might have convinced herself that Jane was fine, because he was always fine. That his phone was turned off because he wanted it off. That Laura Jorsten wasn't answering because she wasn't home.

But this was After.

After Lisbon had walked into an office and found a good friend and two coworkers lying slain, their blood painting the walls, forever proving that no place and no one was ever truly safe.

She dialed a new number and brought the phone to her ear.

"Carmine Valley Police Department. How can I direct your call?"

"This is Agent Lisbon with the California Bureau of Investigation. I need a favor…"


	17. Happenstance

Luck was just not on his side, today.

Nick decided that the moment he saw a car marked "Carmine Valley PD" heading straight toward the property.

One instant, he was standing next to his Crown Vic, about to get in and go look for some witnesses. Next instant, he was down on the ground, cowering like a kicked dog behind the cover of the vehicle. He stayed low, listening, and managed to dart behind the garage just as he heard the cops pull into the driveway.

A steep hill rose up behind the building, littered with loose rocks. Nick scrambled up. At the top, he settled flat on his belly, and peered over the edge.

It was getting dark, but Nick could still see the trail of dust kicked up by the cruiser. The vehicle itself was parked out of sight. He heard a door slam, and drew his gun. A young male officer ambled across the gap between garage and house. Nick trained his weapon on the cop, but didn't fire.

Instead, Nick watched curiously as the young man moseyed slowly up the walkway and out of sight. Seconds later, Nick heard the officer knocking on the front door.

Knocking.

It didn't track. When Nick had first seen the cop car, he'd assumed it was all over – the witnesses had made it to the police, or at least to a working phone, and there was nothing left for Nick to do but cut his losses and escape the scene.

But in that case, why were the cops _knocking_? Why had they driven up at normal speed, no lights blazing or sirens howling? Why had a single officer walked lazily along in plain sight, without even drawing his weapon?

The answer: they didn't _know_. They didn't know an armed gunman was at large on the property. They didn't know the homeowner was lying dead inside the house, unable to answer the door.

"Blowtorch," as Nick had taken to calling Brody's attacker, hadn't reached the police after all.

Someone else must've alerted them. Maybe a neighbor had heard something – gunshots or breaking glass. Nick didn't really see how, though – the houses were so freaking far apart out here…

Maybe someone driving past had noticed something suspicious. That made more sense. A driver noticed something, and called the police to come check it out. Nick heard the young officer's voice call out, friendly and full of the South:

"Mrs. Jorsten? Ma'am, are you home? This is Officer Kelly with the Carmine Valley Police Department…"

Nick slithered back from the edge, and contemplated his options. It wouldn't take the police long before they made several gruesome discoveries. Once that happened, more cops would swarm this place like ants on a dropped Twinkie.

Until then, Nick still had some time to find his witnesses. He just needed to decide where to look.

Nick started to heft himself up, but something caught his eye: little raindrop of black, against the pale brown dirt. He leaned closer, squinting through the dimness, and then pressed his finger against the spot. The substance was tacky. Some of it clung to his skin.

Nick brought the fingertip to his nostrils and sniffed deeply.

Delicious copper flooded his senses.

He wiped the near-dry blood off on his pants and started scanning the ground. Two feet ahead, he spotted another small black dot.

Nick grinned.

Maybe luck was on his side, after all.


	18. A Bad Feeling

Lisbon paced the lounge like an OCD zoo tiger. At the corner, she stopped and looked at her phone.

_Ring,_ she commanded.

It didn't.

Lisbon spun on her heel and resumed pacing. Her footsteps were hollow taps in the near-empty room. Most of Durenko's employees had been sent home for the night. The CBI tech people hadn't arrived yet. At the moment, it was just Lisbon, Hoskins, and a few random department heads left mingling in the lounge. Van Pelt was still upstairs, getting her computer groove on. The rest of the building was dark and ghostly still. The sun had gone down over half an hour ago.

Lisbon reached another corner. She scowled at the phone.

_Ring._

Nothing.

She paced.

Forty-five minutes had passed since Lisbon had called the Carmine Valley PD and requested that an officer go check out the Jorsten house. In the meantime, she'd replayed Jane's message three more times. She still couldn't decipher any hidden clues or meanings, but the feeling it gave her reminded Lisbon of bad things:

The creepy tickle of spider legs across her skin. That sick sensation of "about to fall." The ache of certainty and dread at a fresh crime scene, when she came across those first few drops of blood, and knew – just _knew_ – that a body was waiting around the corner…

Lisbon shook her head, refusing to go there. Not yet. Her hand tightened around the cell phone, which remained infuriatingly silent.

All she wanted right now was to hear Jane's voice in her ear. Jane's voice, telling her that the strange phone call had been some vital part of one of his schemes, key move in a grand master plan to trap Paul Jorsten's killer:

" _See, Lisbon, he had to BELIEVE I was really dialing the FBI…"_

Jane's voice, saying he was already back at the office, and where was she? Because Rigsby had ordered pizza for everyone.

Lisbon would never tell Jane how she'd gotten worked up over nothing and sent the police to go check on him. He would find out, anyway, and laugh at her over-reaction, but also be touched by her concern. She had the whole conversation planned out. All she needed was for the phone to ring…

Lisbon gave the device her deadliest, I-will-shoot-to-kill look.

_Ring, damn it! Ring, ring, RING!_

It rang, and she almost dropped it.

"Lisbon," she blurted, fumbling to get the phone in position.

"Uh, Agent Lisbon, this is Officer Ryan Kelly with the Carmine Valley Police Department…"

Her face fell. Not Jane…

"…I'm at the residence of Paul and Laura Jorsten, and we have a situation here."

Lisbon's stomach dipped a little. "What kind of a situation?"

The officer hesitated, and Lisbon's stomach did a full-fledged nose dive.

"Agent, are you driving right now?"

"No," she said sharply, urgency and cold dread making her voice sound mean. "I'm not driving. Just tell me what's going on."

"Well, it appears to be a double-homicide…"


	19. Compass

The sun died a spectacular ruby death. It warmed their backs with the last of its power, and yielded to the horizon one fiery finger at a time, holding on until the last possible instant.

Going…going…gone.

Blazing red faded to pink. Pink gave way to purple. Darkness sifted down like black sand from the heavens, and Jane and Penny were left alone in the night.

By the time the first stars began winking and flashing overhead, Jane's breaths had turned to white clouds. He continued to hop along, but his pace had slowed. Penny had stopped crying a while ago. Her face was dry, smooth and blank. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused on anything. Off in the distance, a lone coyote yipped and howled.

Jane shivered. He hoped he'd made the right choice, leading them all the way out here. It was an intricate chess game, trying to guess what his opponent would do. Trying to guess what his opponent would think _he_ would do. Jane frequently played the game at work, and he won every time…Almost.

He had also played the game with Red John.

And lost.

Everything.

Mustache Man wasn't Red John. Mustache Man was most likely a professional killer. His partner, too. It explained the relaxed attitude, the execution-style shooting, and the fact that they were working in a pair. Hitmen followed orders. There was structure involved. Logic, planning.

Even though their plans had been blown to hell by Jane's unexpected presence, the killers would continue to function as professionals. Mustache Man knew that Jane and Penny were alive. He also knew that, as witnesses, they could not be allowed to remain that way. He would use logic to deduce where they'd gone, and attempt to come find them and kill them.

A logical person in Jane's situation would either try to hide, or else flee and seek help. There was a garage to hide in, and a whole house, too. There was a road, and, miles down, there were other houses. There might even be a car or two to flag down on the way. The desert, on the other hand, was empty infinity. A big stretch of nothing. The Void. No houses, here. No cars, no phones, no people.

No help.

But in the dark of night, a big stretch of nothing would take a very long time to search. The killers were on a time crunch – they couldn't know whether Jane had already called the police. Mustache Man would look in the most obvious places first…Jane _hoped_.

As for the help part, Jane would have to leave that to Lisbon and the others. He wished that he could make it easier for them, wished that hiding from the killers didn't mean hiding from the good guys, too…

If only there was some secret clue he could leave. A sign. Something the killers wouldn't understand, or even think of. Some way to guide his friends in the right direction—

Jane's heart gave a sudden, marvelous leap inside his chest. An idea burst to life in his brain, like a flower unfolded in the full glory of the sun, and he almost smiled, in spite of everything.

Very gently, Jane tugged on Penny's arm, changing their course.


	20. Soldiers

Lisbon replayed her conversation with Officer Kelly over and over on the way up to Hoskins' office.

Each time, her bones felt a little colder.

Laura Jorsten was dead. Murdered in her home. One of the officers had already positively IDed her. An adult male body had also been discovered in the Jorsten house. Lying on the floor in an upstairs bedroom, the man's face was too badly burned to make an identification. There was no wallet on his body…

…But he was wearing a suit.

For some reason, Lisbon couldn't bring herself to ask if it was a three-piece.

Jane's car was parked in the driveway, along with a black Crown Victoria. There was no one else in the house, but officers were searching the grounds. The coroner was en route with a fingerprint scanner. When she arrived, then they'd know about Jane. One way or the other.

Lisbon took a deep breath and stepped off the elevator.

Hoskins' office was dark when she reached it. Van Pelt sat alone, squinting into the bright monitor, her face a ghostly blue mask of concentration. She probably hadn't even noticed the sun going down…

Lisbon flicked on the overhead lights.

Van Pelt twisted around in her chair, blinking. "Oh, hey boss." She rolled her shoulders and stifled a yawn. "Did the tech team get here?"

"Not yet." Lisbon tried to make her voice sound normal. Her throat felt funny. "Listen…something's happened."

Van Pelt frowned, sitting up straighter. "What is it?"

"Laura Jorsten's been murdered. Shot execution-style, same as her husband. Her body was found at home…"

Van Pelt winced. "Oh, no…did Jane find her?"

Lisbon swallowed. "I don't have all the details, yet. But Jane…he might be in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"We're not really sure of anything at this point. Local PD's at the scene, and I'm heading there now to meet them."

The younger agent stood up, nodding. "Okay, um, just let me shut this down and unhook the tower. We can take it with us so Hoskins doesn't try to tamper – "

"No," said Lisbon, a little too loudly. She softened her voice. "No, I'm going alone. I need you to stay here, keep digging…"

Van Pelt's eyes looked pained. "But boss, if Jane needs help – "

"Then the best thing you can do for him is figure out what's going on, who's behind this."

Now Van Pelt's whole face looked pained.

Lisbon sighed. "Look, we've got a husband and a wife, both murdered, probably professionally. This company is the _only_ lead we have. You saw Hoskins in that interview. He's hiding something. I'm counting on you to find out what it is. Understood?"

Van Pelt took a deep breath, and nodded. Curt and professional.

"Yes, boss," she said firmly.

Lisbon's heart swelled a little. What an agent. What a soldier.

Van Pelt immediately sat back down and started sifting through documents, a new intensity about her that crackled like fire.

Lisbon turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. "Van Pelt?"

The younger agent looked up, all business. "Yes, boss?"

"I'll call you," Lisbon promised. "The minute I know anything, I'll call you."

Warmth flooded back between the two women.

Van Pelt's face turned soft again. "Thanks," she said sincerely.

Lisbon nodded, and left the young agent to her search.


	21. In the Wind

Lisbon drove in silence.

She watched white headlights pool across dark pavement and thought of Jane, of their last conversation with each other.

Their _last_ conversation.

It had been so…trivial. No mentions of life or death or Red John. No revelations of bloody vengeance or melancholy musings about the way of the world. Just horses, and the desert. And Jane's antagonistic investigative techniques.

Lisbon tried not to think about how annoyed she'd felt with him during the entire phone call. She tried very hard not to wonder whether it would have made a difference, if she hadn't turned her phone off, or if she'd checked her messages sooner. Would Jane be safe right now, back at headquarters, regaling the team with some harrowing tale of escape?

There was no way to know.

Lisbon sighed, and drove on.

She hadn't told Rigsby and Cho anything yet. Van Pelt only knew part of the situation – not the full horror of it. If Jane was dead, Lisbon would tell them herself. She would do it face-to-face, with as much poise and grace as she could manage. No chance of shielding them from that blow.

But _this_ part – the gut-gnawing uncertainty, the twisting around like a flag in the wind, waiting but not knowing…This part, she could spare them. Walking into that house, into that room, seeing their friend on the floor…She could spare them that, too.

Red and blue lights twinkled in the distance. They looked beautiful – like fireworks against the black of night. A cold rock suddenly lodged itself in Lisbon's throat, preventing her from swallowing. She wondered how an hour and a half could have passed by so very quickly.

Before she was ready, she found herself steering the minivan up a winding drive. Gravel crunched under the tires and colored light strobed across her vision. Lisbon breathed, and tried to slow her heart.

Every window in the Jorsten house was lit. Parked vehicles were clustered all over the property, spilling from the driveway into the yard – police cruisers, a dark sedan and a big black van, Jane's own beloved little sports car.

Lisbon parked next to the van. A flash of red lit the side of the vehicle, and she saw the word "CORONER."

Lisbon's hand was sweaty on the door handle. Her legs shook as she climbed from the car. Before she even had the door closed, there was movement up on the porch. A uniformed officer came jogging toward her across the dark lawn.

Lisbon's mind went blank. Everything else went still – even her heart.

The officer stopped in front of her, breathless.

Somehow, Lisbon swallowed past the rock.

She squared her shoulders, and faced him.


	22. Miles to Go

The sky was putting on a cosmic lightshow.

The stars were crystal dust, scattered across black velvet. Each particle glittered like a field full of fresh powder snow, reduced to a pinpoint. Up, above, and all around, constellations and galaxies were mapped in silver fire – a dazzling, connect-the-dots display of science, history and legend.

The glory of the universe, undiluted by city lights.

Jane could see Dippers, big and little, Andromeda, Orion, and Sirius. He could even see Mars, gleaming red off in the distance. Only Crater-Face was absent, lost in the shadow of the Earth.

Without its main attraction, the rest of the night's tapestry seemed to glow brighter than ever. It was as gorgeous as a Van Gogh painting, as surreal as a hallucination, and Jane was hard-pressed not to exclaim in wonder when a shooting star streaked across the skyline.

He pointed at it with his free hand, but Penny didn't turn her head. She just continued to shuffle along beside him, obedient as a little zombie.

This wasn't the first time tonight that Jane had wanted to show her something beautiful, teach her something fascinating, tell her something funny, or hopeful.

It had been a long while since he'd been in the extended company of a child.

Right now, that child's face was pale as a corpse, her eyes dull and blank, but Jane knew he could bring her back to life. Soothing, honest words to ease her pain. Vivid stories to distract her from the misery.

The power of his voice.

Without it, he was more crippled than if he had _two_ broken legs.

Jane wasn't used to censoring himself. Lisbon, in fact, believed him incapable of it. She often accused Jane of having impulse control issues, Attention Deficit Disorder, and the like, but Jane didn't think this was true. It wasn't an impulse control problem, so much as an "I don't give a damn" problem.

It was just hard to care about little consequences like getting punched in the nose, having to pay a $15,000 fine, or being forced to spend a few nights in jail. Hard to care about anything, really, after he'd already suffered the worst punishment of all.

But if this little girl died…

Somehow, numb as he was, Jane knew he would feel it. And if she died because of him, because of some stupid mistake that he made, that feeling might just be actual pain. So, in spite of all impulses to the contrary, he kept his mouth shut. Who knew how far even a whisper might carry across the desert? Who knew who might be close enough to hear it?

They were in a complex, three-way game of hide-and-seek. Team Psychopath versus Team Lisbon versus Team…Jane looked down at the little girl, remembering the sight of her bedroom before it got demolished. _Team Oz_ , he thought, smiling faintly.

The smile slipped when he saw a shiver grip Penny's small body. Jane's own nose, ears, fingers and toes were aching with the cold night air, but the icy temperature was like a balm on his broken leg. The swollen skin felt less tight, and the fierce pain itself had dulled somewhat.

Penny, however, was in shock. And woefully under-dressed, too. Cold was the very last thing she needed right now. Jane's eyes traveled over her paper-thin t-shirt and equally flimsy shorts, her spindly white arms and bare, dirt-blackened feet. A popsicle would probably feel toasty warm compared to those little toes…

As soon as they stopped, Jane would take care of that. It was one thing he could do, at least.

And he _was_ planning on stopping at some point. The joints on his good leg were creaking and cracking with every little hop-step. Each time he paused to look and listen and make sure they were still safe, it got a bit harder to start moving again. Penny herself was doing a lot more tripping and lurching than actual walking.

Neither one of them could go on indefinitely.

But Jane wouldn't let them quit just yet. He couldn't shake the feeling that they needed to _get_ somewhere, to _reach_ something. What, he didn't know. It was the desert, after all, and there wasn't a whole lot to be found out here. Basically all they'd encountered over the whole length of their journey were a few tiny tufts of dry vegetation, some medium-sized rocks, and a sprinkling of old goat turds. Still, Jane kept hopping slowly along, admiring the sky.

Half an hour later, a dark silhouette came into view. A _huge_ , dark silhouette.

Jane hobbled closer to the mystery object, curious and entirely unafraid. The thing loomed tall against the night – three or four times as tall as a grown man. Tall enough to blot out Mars completely. And as its contours melted into sight, traced in weak blue starlight, Jane began to wonder if he might actually be hallucinating.

Because the thing looked an awful lot like a dragon…


	23. Clueless

"It's not him."

Lisbon stared at the officer, momentarily uncomprehending. Then all the air left her in a rush. "You-You're certain?"

"One hundred percent. Prints did not match Patrick Jane. We're running them through the other databases now, trying to come up with a hit." The middle-aged cop turned and started leading her briskly up the walkway. "Sheriff Hamilton's inside with CSI. They're still trying to piece together exactly what happened…"

Lisbon trotted along beside the officer. Her brain was buzzing. "But…there's been no sign of Jane?"

"We're looking," the older man assured her. Even in the dark, his eyes were warm with compassion. "Believe me, we're looking."

Sheriff Hamilton met them on the porch. "Agent Lisbon."

"Sheriff." They shook hands firmly, and Lisbon met his gaze with solemn eyes. "Tell me everything you know."

He nodded, and started guiding her through the crime scene. "One of my deputies, Officer Kelly, started looking in windows when no one answered the door. That's when he saw Laura…"

Paul Jorsten's wife was lying face-up on the living room carpet, not far from the entryway. Her eyes were wide open, and starting to cloud. Camera flashes lit the room like lightning, bouncing crazily off the giant wall-mirror and reflecting in the blood pool behind Laura's head. The place was crawling with CSIs - two were taking pictures while another three edged carefully between furniture and around the body, scouring for evidence.

"After Kelly got inside and determined that Laura was dead, he and his partner did a sweep of the house. They discovered the second body upstairs…"

Lisbon followed the Sheriff up a flight of emerald steps. At the top, a young female officer came over to meet them.

"We got a match," she told the Sheriff breathlessly, holding up the print scanner. "It's Aaron Brody."

Sheriff Hamilton blinked. "Well, I'll be damned…"

Lisbon looked back and forth between the two cops. "Am I supposed to know that name?"

"Only if you work around here," the Sheriff told her. He gestured Lisbon past a child's bedroom, which looked utterly trashed, and into the master bedroom, where a man's body lay curled on the floor, and there were no CSIs in sight.

Lisbon's eyes washed over the scene.

Cold night air leaked through a large broken window. There was blood on the sill. A thick magenta comforter lay crumpled beside the bed, scorched black in several places.

The dead man was wearing a designer suit, but it wasn't a three-piece. Both of his hands were red with burns. No wedding ring. A small gun lay beside him. Another revolver was across the room, near the fireplace.

The man's face was…destroyed. Lips were peeled back, exposing too many teeth. His jaw was stuck open, his eyes forever burned shut. His skin was mostly black, a little bit red, and very cracked. There was a dark stain on the carpet near his open mouth. The rest of the floor was littered with matches, curved shards of glass, and small pieces of what Lisbon first assumed to be ash. On closer inspection, she realized they were pieces of skin.

Lisbon shivered. If it had been Jane…

She took a deep breath, and the smell flooded her. Lisbon's stomach rolled.

If it had been Jane, she would already be in the bathroom across the hall, throwing up.

Sheriff Hamilton was watching her carefully, as if afraid she might faint.

Lisbon narrowed her eyes in defiance. "So?" she prompted. "Aaron Brody?"

The Sheriff looked down at the body. "Aaron Brody is – _was_ – the son of Mason Brody, bane of all law enforcement in these parts. Mason's a bigwig in organized crime. Real kingpin. Prostitution, illegal gambling, even human trafficking…You name something shady that goes on around here, ten-to-one he's involved with it. The Feds have been trying to build a case against him for years, but the guy's slippery like butter. Plus he's got a team of lawyers, each worth their own weight in gold. Probably more than a few politicians in his pocket, too…"

"And how does his son fit into all of it?"

Sheriff Hamilton shrugged. "He's _rumored_ to be part of the organization…He was actually arrested about eighteen months ago. Feds busted up a big prostitution operation. It was some nasty business, too – illegal immigrants, smuggled here and forced to work as call-girls. Some were even sold as sex slaves. Just God-awful business…" He shook his head.

"But Aaron was never convicted of any of it?"

"No. The 'Dream Team' got him off, no surprises there. A few of the organization's low-levels did go down, though. Guys handling the day-to-day business, one of the drivers who helped ship the girls in. Small fish."

Lisbon frowned, thinking hard. "So, what's Aaron Brody been up to since the bust? Any more recent arrests?"

"No arrests, but a buddy of mine at the FBI says they have an inside source who claims that, as far as he knows, Aaron's not working the prostitution side of things any more. These days, he's working as a hitman."

Multiple gears were turning in Lisbon's brain. She walked closer to the body, then wandered over to the gun by the fireplace. It was a thirty-eight. The same caliber that had killed Paul Jorsten. They were both thirty-eights.

"Is the second gun – ?" Lisbon started to ask.

"They're both his. We found matching holsters on the body. Hip and ankle."

She nodded. A back-up weapon made sense for a professional killer. "Okay, so Aaron Brody was a hitman working for his father's organization…He killed Paul and Laura Jorsten because… _they_ were involved with the organization, too? A business deal gone wrong?" Lisbon looked up at the Sheriff, eyebrows raised. It didn't feel right. Van Pelt hadn't found any mob ties in the Jorstens' records. _None_ of it was helping them find Jane…

Sheriff Hamilton looked back at her, equally clueless. "That could be. Or, they witnessed something they shouldn't have. Or hell, maybe they just offended Aaron or his father in some way. All we know is, Aaron came to this house, and, for whatever reason, Laura Jorsten let him in. He killed her, then rooted around downstairs a bit, like he was either searching for something, or else trying to make it look like a break-in. And then he came up here. From the look of things, that's when all hell broke loose…"

Lisbon's eyes traveled again over the gruesome scene in front of her. "Hell" was a good word for it.

"The best we can figure," the Sheriff went on, "is that your man must've taken Brody by surprise. We think Jane was hiding in here, waiting, and when Brody came in, Jane attacked him with a bottle of cologne and some matches. The cologne's animal-based, so the oil would've burned like crazy. And while Brody was on fire, it looks like Jane managed to escape through the window…" He nodded at the broken glass jutting from the window frame.

Lisbon looked at the blood on the sill. Then she looked back at the body. Another shiver rippled through her.

_Jane DID that…_

Sheriff Hamilton took out his flashlight and walked to the smashed window, shining his beam onto the slanted roof beyond. Lisbon moved to join him.

"He climbed his way down here, and then dropped off the edge to the ground…" The Sheriff trailed his light over Jane's supposed path. Small bits of glass sparkled like fresh raindrops. Several drips of blood stood out black against the grey shingles.

"There's more blood along the side of the garage," he told Lisbon. "Handprints, like someone was leaning on it for support. We've already searched in there, top to bottom. The place was a mess, but no one was inside. Brody had already shot the lock out before my people got here."

Lisbon stared out into the vast darkness, shaking her head. "I don't understand…If Jane got out of the house, why didn't he just get in his car and drive away?"

"Well, his car keys are downstairs on some kind of key holder. It could be that once he was out, he didn't want to come back for them, or it wasn't safe. Maybe Brody was still coming after him." The Sheriff glanced thoughtfully back at the burned body. "Hard to believe he could've stayed on his feet after something like that, but adrenaline can do wild things. Or, maybe Jane was just disoriented. Injured and not thinking straight. He might've wandered off and collapsed somewhere…"

"Although," the Sheriff added quickly, at Lisbon's distressed look, "if that were the case, you'd think we would've found him by now."

"Where exactly have you been looking?"

"Everywhere we can think of," he told her earnestly. "I've got deputies fanning out around the property. They've been scouring the landscape, searching outbuildings, canvassing all the houses up and down the road, trying to determine if anyone saw or heard anything. And Search and Rescue's on the way…"

Lisbon rubbed at her head, which was suddenly throbbing worse than ever. Even with fresh air pouring through the broken window, the thick odors of bad cologne and burnt human were overpowering. She strode back into the hallway, and the Sheriff followed after her, clicking off his flashlight.

Lisbon stopped on the threshold to the bathroom. She stared at the mess beyond without really seeing it. So, maybe Jane hadn't been able to get into his car, but that still didn't explain why he hadn't called for help.

_He DID call for help_ , a little voice reminded her, and for the second time that night she had to swallow past a lump.

He had called while the killer was coming to get him. The strange, muffled, sing-song voice on her phone replayed itself in Lisbon's mind; she now knew that voice belonged to Aaron Brody, the hitman. But why hadn't Jane called again after he escaped?

Dead battery? No signal?

"Agent Lisbon?"

She blinked, startled to find the Sheriff so close beside her. "I'm just thinking," Lisbon murmured, looking back at the laundry-strewn bathroom. The place had been turned upside down. Towels flung from shelves, socks and underwear tossed out of the hamper…

Lisbon frowned suddenly, noticing something else. Something small, poking out from under a pair of polka dot panties. She slipped a latex glove from her pocket and moved carefully into the bathroom. Crouching low, Lisbon peeled back the panties to reveal a brown plastic horse. She picked it up with the glove.

A child's toy.

Lisbon's mind flashed onto the ransacked child's bedroom a few feet down the hall.

A sudden, horrible thought occurred to her. One that should have occurred much earlier…


	24. Life

Sheriff Hamilton had radioed a few minutes ago with the news:

The male body lying dead and burned inside the Jorsten home was _not_ Patrick Jane.

It was an unexpected twist. Something bright, and hopeful, that gave fresh bounce to Officer Ryan Kelly's footsteps as he widened his search around the Jorstens' property, calling out,

"Mr. Jane? Mr. Jane, can you hear me?"

Crickets sang and nightwind rustled. Mr. Jane did not answer.

Ryan kept walking and shouting for the CBI's missing consultant. Ever since he'd joined the force six months ago, Ryan had been regaled with stories about the legendary Patrick Jane. Two of Ryan's fellow officers had actually worked with Mr. Jane on past cases. One swore up, down, right and left that Patrick Jane was the best detective he'd ever encountered in his lifetime. The other officer disparaged Mr. Jane's strange methods for getting confessions, and the consultant's "generally unprofessional demeanor."

Having never met the man personally, Ryan withheld judgment. He did not know whether Mr. Jane was a true psychic or a good guesser, a clever man who knew exactly what he was doing or a barely-restrained lunatic who took wild risks to get results.

But Mr. Jane _did_ get results. No one could argue with that. Ryan knew that a long list of murderers, rapists, and kidnappers were in prison thanks to Mr. Jane's efforts. Ryan also knew, because everyone did, that Mr. Jane's own family had been murdered.

Patrick Jane had come home one night to find a note taped to his bedroom door. Ryan had seen photos of what lay beyond that door. He would never again have to wonder why two seasoned, veteran cops had vomited after exiting the Jane crime scene.

Ryan himself was married. His wife was waiting for him at home right now, busying herself with laundry and dishes and emails. When those things got finished, she might decide to scrub the bathroom tile, or shampoo the carpet. No matter what time Ryan's shift ended—11pm, 2am, 4am—she would always be wide-awake, listening for his cruiser to pull in. She claimed she could not sleep without him beside her.

Their two-year-old son, on the other hand, would be sprawled face-down in his crib, oblivious to the world. He needed his beauty rest at night, if he was going to have a proper day full of terrorizing ants in the backyard and plastering Elmo stickers on the banister.

Just thinking about his wife and son made Ryan smile without even realizing it. They were the air in his lungs, the warm blood surging through his heart. If he ever came home and saw a note taped to the door…

If he ever walked into a room to find his wife and child _in pieces,_ it would be over for him. Ryan was sure. No chance to keep living with collapsed lungs and an empty heart. But somehow, Mr. Jane had found a way – not just to continue living, but to do so with decency, using his skills to help other victims. Victims like him.

For this, Ryan respected the man.

And as he walked in ever-growing rings around the Jorsten home, searching the darkness, Ryan did so with the hope that Patrick Jane had, once again, found a way to survive.


	25. The Wolf

Nick shivered.

He was cold, and so was the trail. The line of sporadic blood drips had dried up well over an hour ago. Now, he was just roaming the dark desert at random. Even if there _was_ more blood on the ground, Nick probably wouldn't be able to see it. He could barely see three feet in front of him. His flashlight was back in the trunk of his car, and the moon was very inconveniently absent.

Every three seconds or so, Nick's ghostly breath misted the air in front of him, making visibility even worse. His teeth clenched, fighting not to chatter. He jammed his free hand in his pocket and marched onward. After a while, he thought he saw something up ahead.

Something _big_.

Nick froze. He held his breath, and squinted in the pale starlight. It was tall. About the size and shape of a man, standing upright. A man with something _small_ huddled near his feet. Nick crept forward, his heart quick and eager. He raised his gun, aiming it directly at…

…The top of a giant, oblong boulder.

Nick sighed and let the gun fall back to his side. Already, he'd been fooled by a pair of oddly-shaped cacti. And now a rock? The small object near its base turned out to be a spikey clump of knee-high vegetation. A Spanish Dagger plant. Nick kicked at it, brutally crunching several long, pointed leaves. He took another step, and almost fell right on his face thanks to an untied shoelace.

Growling, Nick sank to the ground and set about retying the shoe. He tugged at the slippery laces fiercely, reminding himself why he could not give up yet. If the witnesses identified him, he would have to cross the border. If Brody's attacker got away, it wouldn't matter how many borders Nick crossed - someone, some way, had to pay for the death of the boss's son. If the real killer couldn't be punished, Nick might just be the next best thing. Technically, Brody's death _had_ happened on Nick's watch…

Nick sighed again, hating his dead partner more than ever. He plucked his gun off the dirt and stood back up, bones creaking with cold. He wondered how much time he had before this whole desert was twinkling with a hundred flashlight beams, or - if Blowtorch happened to be a _really_ important guy - whitewashed with spotlights from helicopters.

A search party was inevitable. If Nick hadn't found the witnesses by then, his best chance was to blend in with the searchers. It wouldn't be easy, considering what he was wearing right now. Cops didn't wear Armani suits. Especially not while searching the desert. Nick would need to look like the other officers. He'd have to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. And for that, he'd need a sheep…

Somewhere off in the distance, somewhere behind him, a faint sound stirred the night. Nick turned. He cocked his head, listening intently. It came again – a human voice calling out, its words indistinct. A small white light winked on the dark horizon. Like a star, only earthbound.

Flashlight.

Nick swore silently and darted back to the boulder. He crouched behind it, waiting. The voice wandered closer. Garbled syllables became clear words:

"Mr. Jane? Can you hear me? Mr. Jane!"

Only one voice, Nick realized. And he recognized it.

Moving stealthily, Nick put his gun away, and drew instead the long bowie knife strapped to his calf. A bright beam skimmed across the ground. It hit the boulder, and paused. Light streamed past the rock on either side of Nick's shadowy hiding spot. The young officer trotted forward, his footsteps crunching in the dirt.

"Mr. Jane…?"

Nick's fingers tightened around the hilt. He smiled into the night.

_Hello, little lamb…_


	26. Silence

Lisbon looked up at the Sheriff, stricken. "Their daughter – Penny Jorsten – Do you know where she is? Could she have been here when all this happened?"

Sheriff Hamilton shifted uncomfortably in the doorframe. "We're, uh, still trying to determine that…"

Lisbon blinked. She stood up, plastic horse in hand. "'Still trying to determine?'"

"Grandparents are all deceased," he explained, "and we haven't been able to get ahold of the father yet. My people are trying to track down friends and other relatives, to see if anyone knows the girl's whereabouts."

"I don't think she's with her father. He was in for questioning most of the day, and we just let him go a few hours ago. There wouldn't have been time for him to come all the way out here and get her," Lisbon reasoned. "Unless he picked her up somewhere else…"

"At the very least Cardelli should be able to tell us whether his daughter was here today or not – _if_ we ever manage to get him on the phone." The Sheriff's face grew stormy. "What the hell kind of parent leaves his cell phone off?"

"I don't know, but one of my agents has the contact info for a good friend of Cardelli's. We may be able to get through to him that way…" Lisbon set the horse on the sink and pulled out her phone.

"Well, until we do, we're going to have to assume she's missing, too," the Sheriff said grimly. "Hopefully, when we find Jane, we'll – "

Another officer appeared in the bathroom doorway next to the Sheriff. It was the middle-aged cop who'd first met Lisbon outside. He looked upset. Lisbon stopped dialing and waited.

"What is it, Michaels?" Sheriff Hamilton asked. "Did you find something?"

"Sir, one of the CSI guys outside swears that the bullet hole in the garage door was made by a forty-five…"

Lisbon and the Sheriff exchanged a significant look. A third gun. And only two holsters on Brody…

"Someone else was here," said Lisbon in a tone of dawning realization. "A second gunman. That's why we haven't found Jane. That's why he kept running – there was someone still chasing him…"

Fear lit the Sheriff's eyes. "This person could still be in the area. I need to warn my men…" He snatched the radio off his belt and spoke into it loudly. "All units, be advised – we believe there may be an armed suspect still in the vicinity. Proceed with extreme caution. Over." Then he began to check in with each individual officer:

"Officer Burke, do you copy? Over."

"Copy that, Sheriff," came the scratchy reply through the speaker. "Will proceed with caution, over."

"Officer Stanborn, do you copy? Over."

"I copy, sir. I'll keep my eyes peeled for the son of a bitch. Over."

"Officer Jones…"

And so it went, on down the list until the Sheriff got to Officer Kelly:

"Officer Kelly, do you copy? Over."

Static silence met Sheriff Hamilton's question. He tried again.

"Officer Kelly, I repeat, do you copy? Over."

Dead air.

"Officer Kelly, please report back, over."

The pause stretched out ten seconds, then fifteen. Lisbon's grip started to tighten around her phone.

The radio crackled suddenly, and Officer Kelly's voice filled the bathroom. "Yeah, I copy, sir – sorry, I was just checkin' something out. Didn't mean to cause alarm. I'll be sure and keep an eye out for a possible armed suspect. Over and out." His thick Texas accent sounded even thicker over the radio than it had on the phone earlier.

The Sheriff put his radio away and Lisbon sighed shakily. At least everyone was accounted for. Everyone except Jane. And Penny Jorsten.

Lisbon remembered that she'd been about to call Rigsby. She pressed "SEND" and brought the phone to her ear.

"Well, I'll have to call off Search and Rescue," said the Sheriff.

Lisbon disconnected her call before it even had a chance to ring. She stared at the Sheriff. "What're you talking about? We _need_ them…"

"That we do, Agent Lisbon, but you know as well as I that we can't send them out with a gunman still on the loose. It'd be like sending a bunch of EMTs into the middle of a shootout. They're unarmed civilians. They'd be sitting ducks."

"Then we need more manpower," Lisbon insisted. "The more cops we have out there looking, the faster we can clear the area for Search and Rescue. Call in every officer you have, and – "

"I already did," he told her. "I've got Michaels and Darby here, working the scene, and the other six are all out searching. That's my whole department…"

Desperation started to rise in Lisbon's chest. It could take hours for anyone else from CBI to get here and help. "That's not enough. We're talking about a twenty-mile stretch of barely-populated road, not to mention the desert. Six deputies will never be able to cover that. Not by themselves. Not in the dark. And we don't even have a clue which direction—" The words suddenly froze inside her throat. Her gaze had fallen on the brown plastic horse.

The little animal looked back at her with shiny black eyes. Somehow, its mouth seemed more up-turned than before. Almost like a smile. A _Jane-like_ smile…

"Agent Lisbon…?"

She met the Sheriff's eye. "I know which way they went."


	27. Recycling

Grace's right hand was a few degrees below freezing. Her fingers were stiff and arthritic-looking, bent and bloodless from gripping the mouse for too many hours. She ignored the discomfort and clicked open the next file.

Another spreadsheet.

Her eyes wandered the data. It didn't seem to be anything incriminating, or even the least bit special. Just some standard sales statistics, compiled for easy analysis. Grace could see which products had sold best in which months, which ad campaigns had been effective and which ones hadn't. What she _couldn't_ see was how any of it related to Paul Jorsten's death. After another minute of examination, Grace closed the spreadsheet and moved on to a new folder.

"Lawsuits."

Now, this one looked more interesting. Of course, Grace had already read all about any recently-resolved and still-pending lawsuits against the company earlier that day. But there might be some details on the CEO's computer that weren't public knowledge. Maybe. She _hoped_ …

Sadly, it didn't take long for that hope to get dashed. There was nothing new, here. Nothing different, nothing interesting, nothing helpful. Grace sighed and rubbed at her stomach. It felt all full of barbed wire – cold, cut up, bleeding. She knew Lisbon had been telling the truth about not having all the details. But the young agent _also_ knew her boss was holding something back. Something bad. Something bad about Jane…

Like maybe he was hurt, or kidnapped, or—

Grace shook her head. No. This wasn't helping. The research, the case – _that_ was her way of helping him.

She took a deep breath and dove back in, this time taking a new tack.

Assuming Buck Hoskins was at least a mildly intelligent person, he wouldn't be likely to keep anything damaging on his computer. So, what had Paul Jorsten stumbled upon? And how?

_He was doing a file recovery_ , Grace thought, working her bottom lip between her teeth. _All files had been lost…_

Paul would have tried to recover every bit of data he possibly could. But what if he'd recovered something that was meant to stay gone? Something the CEO had intentionally deleted?

Grace eyed the Recycle Bin on the computer's desktop. Purgatory for deleted files, before they were gone for good. It was wise practice to empty the bin on a regular basis, but some people didn't realize this. Some people didn't realize they needed to empty it at all...

She clicked the icon, and a good three-hundred-and-some files, pictures and folders flooded into view. Obviously, Hoskins was one of those people. If Grace was very lucky, the ghost of whatever document he had already tried twice to eliminate would still be lurking in this graveyard…

She scrolled down through the list, taking in the bin's contents. Almost everything was labeled in alpha-numeric codes that made little-to-no sense to Grace:

"SA0807"  
"CB0208"  
"PI1121"

Some of those numbers might refer to dates or products, but she couldn't be sure yet. She'd have to go through everything, piece by piece, file by file…

Grace was about to open the very first document when her phone began to ring.

She scrambled to answer it, half-numb fingers fumbling with the buttons. "Van Pelt."

"Hey, it's me…"

It was the boss. Grace sat forward in her seat. "Is Jane all right?" she tried to ask, but her last two words were drowned out by a loud, strange noise on the other end of the line.

Grace blinked in confusion. "Um, boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Was that a coyote?"

"I think so…"

Grace frowned into the phone. "Where exactly _are_ you?"

"That…is a really long story."

And without further ado, Lisbon began to tell it. She fully regaled the younger agent with the details of everything that had transpired over the last three hours, from the initial police arrival at the Jorsten home, to how Lisbon had ended up a quarter of a mile into the desert, heading Northeast.

As soon as Lisbon mentioned the names Aaron and Mason Brody, excitement made Grace sit up straighter. "Boss, there are emails from him on Hoskins' computer – _tons_. Not the son, but the father, Mason…" Her fingers tap-danced over the keyboard, bringing up the CEO's email account.

"Yeah?" Lisbon sounded interested. "Anything incriminating?"

Grace's shoulders slumped. "Well…no. Not really. Just family stuff – barbeques, golf outings. It sounds like they've been buddies since way back in high school…"

"At least it's a connection, which we didn't have before. Good work."

The young agent brightened at the praise. "Thanks…Hey, boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure this wasn't some kind of kidnapping? I mean, if Jane's missing, and the daughter might be missing, too? The second perp might've had a separate vehicle…"

Lisbon sighed. "We haven't ruled it out. I've got an Officer Michaels working that angle right now, but we think it's a long shot. If the goal was kidnapping, then the target would have to be Penny Jorsten. No one knew Jane was going to be at the house. And it doesn't explain the murders. There are easier ways to kidnap a child than killing her mother and step-father…"

Grace deflated a little. "Yeah, you're right…"

"I still think the search is our best bet. I've already called Rigsby and Cho, they're on their way out here. The FBI is sending a team over, too, and we're supposed to have helicopters within the hour. In the meantime, Sheriff Hamilton's coordinating with some of the surrounding counties, trying to get us more man power and a K-9 unit…"

"Do you want _me_ to come?" Grace asked a little wistfully, already knowing the answer.

"No. Just keep doing what you're doing. The sooner we know what this is really about, the better our chances of finding Jane alive."

"Right," Grace murmured, half-distracted by a sudden movement on the edge of her vision. Buck Hoskins had just arrived in the office doorway. He stood there, watching her.

Grace remembered the icky way he had smiled at her and Lisbon, before they started treating him like a suspect. She looked at the computer's Recycle Bin, overflowing with hundreds of obscure documents, and then back at the CEO. An idea began to blossom…

"Van Pelt? You still there?"

"Yeah, but I gotta go," Grace said quickly.

"Me, too – the signal's getting patchy out here…"

"Call when you find him, okay?"

"I will," Lisbon promised.

"Oh, and boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

"I will," Lisbon said again, more softly this time.

Grace could hear another coyote start to wail in the distance right before the boss hung up.

Grace pocketed her own phone and looked over at Hoskins. Then, squashing down a very significant amount of personal disgust, the young agent made her lips melt into the biggest, flirtiest smile _ever_.


	28. Drive

Rigsby shifted in his seat. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, and then adjusted it again. He started fiddling with the heating vent. First too hot, now too cold. He couldn't get it to feel right.

The taillights of the car in front suddenly flared bright.

Rigsby braked, a little too hard, and the minivan gave an uncomfortable lurch. The seatbelt pulled tight across Rigsby's chest. Over in the passenger seat, Cho stared out the front windshield, his face bathed in glowing red, his expression grimmer than usual.

They idled.

Rigsby shoved a thumb under the tight seatbelt, trying to loosen it. The chain of brake lights up ahead started to flicker off, one by one. The car in front of them began to pull away. Rigsby accelerated, still struggling with the belt. It was like a boa constrictor – the more he pulled and fought, the tighter it got.

He jerked at it in frustration, and the car did a little swerve.

Cho glanced over at him. "You want me to drive?"

Rigsby let go of seatbelt still pinning him and put both hands on the wheel. "No, I'm good."

Cho gave a little nod and looked out the windshield again.

Rigsby sighed. He wished Grace were here. There wasn't enough warmth…

Rigsby reached out to tilt the heat vent toward him. Cho reached out and turned the heat off.

Brake lights started flaring again. The seat belt wouldn't let go. It was tight on his chest, he couldn't breathe…

"He asked me to go with him," Rigsby blurted suddenly. "Jane did. To the widow's house."

Cho gazed out at the chain of red lights. "You didn't go."

"No, I…I told him I had to stay and help Van Pelt, but that's not the real reason…I just, I knew Lisbon didn't okay it, and I didn't want to get chewed out again, and I just…didn't _feel_ like going..." There it was – his secret shame, bare naked and in full view.

"Sounds fair enough," said Cho, too calmly.

Rigsby stared at him. "But…I _could've_ gone. I wasn't doing anything important. And if I'd been there, if I'd been with him, this wouldn't have happened. Laura Jorsten would still be alive right now, and Jane and that little girl would be fine…"

"Maybe. Maybe not. No way to know."

Rigsby shook his head, anguished. "I just…I can't stop thinking about it, you know? I keep going over and over it in my head…"

"That's not helping," Cho told him, most unhelpfully.

Anger flared in Rigsby's chest – bright, like a taillight. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

Cho turned away from the windshield to look at him full-force. Emotion glowed in those normally blank eyes. "Stop feeling guilty," he said. "Start driving faster."

Rigsby held his partner's strong gaze for a moment, and felt the anger inside melt into something better, something brighter. Solidarity. He nodded once, fiercely, and turned back to the road.

The car in front was distant, now – two red specks in the darkness. Rigsby leaned back, and then forward. The seatbelt released him. He pressed down on the gas pedal.

The minivan surged to close the gap.


	29. Smileys

"How's that?"

" _Heavenly_ ," Grace moaned, leaning further into Hoskins' too-rough shoulder massage when every inch of her wanted to shrink away.

"People don't realize what sitting in front of a computer all day can do to your back," said the CEO silkily. He slid his hand up under her long hair and began to knead at the vertebrae just under the base of her skull. "Or your neck…"

Grace faked a groan of pleasure and scrolled down an inch on the computer screen.

Standing behind her, Hoskins chuckled. "I bet if your boss knew how much discomfort she was causing you, she'd let you off desk duty once in a while."

Grace scoffed. "Yeah, right. To her, I'm always going to be the rookie. I'm always going to be the one stuck at the computer while everyone else is out making arrests."

"She sounds like a bitch," Hoskins offered, moving his thumbs in hard circles over Grace's shoulder blades.

"She is," Grace lied.

She scrolled down again, and pored over the newly revealed contents slowly, making sure the CEO had plenty of time to look at them, too.

"I think she's totally wrong about this case, too," the young agent went on, trying hard to channel her most rebellious inner teenager. "We shouldn't even be here, disrupting your business. This was a mob hit. It's pretty obvious Paul Jorsten got involved in something shady, and then paid the price for it."

The CEO's fingers traced the sinews of her neck. "Well," he began thoughtfully, "it's hard to believe someone like Paul would be a party to something so sinister…" Hoskins leaned in closer, his breaths displacing her hair. "But then again, how well do we really know anyone, right?"

"Exactly," Grace agreed. She scrolled down.

The CEO's hands instantly tightened, digging down into her flesh hard enough to bruise. Suppressing a wince, Grace began to roll the cursor carefully over each file and folder in view, one by one.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing—

"Didn't you say you were almost done?" he asked suddenly, just as the little white arrow slid across a document called "CB0409."

_Bingo_. Grace's heart lit up like a carnival.

Managing a bored sigh, she branded the file name into her memory and scrolled down again. Hoskins' fingers relaxed.

"Yeah," Grace muttered. "This is a waste of time. I'm just going to finish with this folder, then I'm calling it quits. And then _maybe_ , you and I can go grab some dinner." She looked up at him, smiling beatifically.

Hoskins smiled back. "Sounds like a plan."

Grace reached out for the coffee one of the CBI tech guys had brought her. She took a sip and made an exaggerated face of disgust. "Ugh… _Cold_ …" She looked up at Hoskins again. "I don't suppose you would…?" Grace shook the near-empty cup hopefully.

The CEO chuckled again. "All right. One steaming hot cup of coffee coming right up."

"Oh, and a Danish?" Grace added, as he started to move away. "I think the tech guys brought Danishes…" She grinned sheepishly.

Hoskins' smile melted into a leer. "Only if you'll let me steal a bite."

"Deal," she purred.

The CEO laughed and strolled out of the office.

Grace allowed herself a shudder before hurrying to retrieve the document that had caused Hoskins' tense reaction.

_CB0409…_

Two quick clicks, and the file sprawled open before her. The carnival dimmed a little.

The document was very degraded. Large blocks of text had been replaced with strings of nonsense symbols, and other chunks of data were missing entirely. The poor quality was definitely consistent with something that had been recovered after a bad hard drive crash. But how was she supposed to read it?

She'd probably have better luck deciphering something written by a Navajo Code-Talker. That, at least, would be a _code_. This…was gibberish. Plus, Hoskins would be back any minute. Grace didn't want him to know she was trying to catch him until she actually had something to catch him _with_ …

Right now all she had were long lines of smiley faces, number signs, and question marks, which began to blur the longer she stared at them. Grace rubbed her eyes. She could feel fatigue dragging at every muscle, every bone.

The useless smileys on the screen seemed to wink at her, mockingly cheerful. Jane was out in the desert, cold and most likely injured, waiting for them to find him, counting on them to crack the case, and she had…smileys.

Emotion started to rise in Grace's throat – a swell of childish longing for things to be _fair_ , an ache at the thought of having to dig and claw bare-handed for every little morsel. Especially now, when a friend's life was on the line. Why, just this once, couldn't it have been easy?

Her heart answered for her, in a voice that sounded oddly like Jane's:

_Nothing worthwhile ever is._

Swallowing roughly, Grace blinked away the tears and got to work.


	30. Cost and Benefit

The document was some type of cost-benefit analysis – that much Grace could tell from the name. Anything on Hoskins' computer that started with "CB" was cost-benefit. There was a clear date on the file, too – one of the few things that remained intact. She wrote it down on a pink sticky note, and then started going line by line, looking for other recognizable bits of information.

Soon, Grace had identified a product number and a part number, both repeated in several places throughout the document, as well as two different dollar amounts, and the words "lawsuit," "defective," and "recall." She stopped and checked her watch. Her right foot started to tap a nervous beat. Seven minutes. Hoskins had been gone seven minutes. Really, how much longer could it take to fetch some rancid coffee and a Danish?

Grace whipped out her cell phone and tapped the CEO's mobile number into the keypad. She heard his phone ringing right in her ear, and also somewhere just down the hall. Grace quickly started closing documents and files.

"Hello?" Again, there was a weird echo effect as his voice emanated from two different places.

"Hi, it's me," Grace gushed.

She could almost feel him grin. "Getting a little impatient, are we? Well, I'm about ten feet away from you right now, coffee and Danish in hand, as requested…"

"Um, yeah, that's the thing – I changed my mind. A Danish just sounds too sugary right now…I think I want some chips, instead. Chips sound yummy."

He chuckled. "Well, you're a finicky one, aren't you? The vending machine's down on the first floor, all the way across the building. It's going to take me a few minutes…"

"That's okay," Grace assured him pleasantly.

"Any particular kind?"

"No, anything you have is fine. I'm easy."

Another chuckle. "I doubt that. Anyway, just make sure you don't fill up too much on the chips – I want you still to be hungry for dinner…"

"Oh, don't worry. I'm always…hungry." She let her voice drop half an octave on the last word.

A sultry laugh tickled against her eardrum. "So, where do you want to go for dinner?" Hoskins asked. This time, the echo effect of his voice was gone.

Grace cautiously began re-opening files. "Ummm…I don't know…Oooh, how about that new place, the one that looks like a castle with all the pink glass?"

"Glinda's?"

"Yes, that's it!" she exclaimed eagerly.

"Okay, reservations for two at Glinda's, and a bag of chips, coming right up," he promised her.

"Great," she beamed.

"Bye," Hoskins cooed, right before he hung up.

Grace tossed the phone onto the desk and made a "yuck" face.

_Evidence tying you to a double-homicide, coming right up_ , she thought, scanning the list of product numbers.

After two more minutes of scouring, Grace had learned that the product referred to in CB0409 was the first model of Durenko's best-selling ATV, the "Tyger." The part number in question matched the rear axle used in the vehicle. Grace did a quick check. They weren't using that particular part on the new models, but there could be a million reasons for that. She looked back at the CB0409 document.

_Lawsuits…_

_Defective…_

_Recall…_

There had been three lawsuits filed against Durenko Sports, Inc that involved Tyger accidents. Two fatalities and one serious injury. All of them had been settled out of court, each one to the tune of generous millions. But, as far as Grace knew, no single part had been identified as being responsible for the crashes. And there certainly hadn't ever been any recall on the Tyger…

_0409…_

April, 2009. That date didn't make any sense. The original Tyger had been released in December of 2008. The document, which mentioned lawsuits and settlements, had been last modified on April 11, 2009. But the first injury involving the use of a Tyger hadn't even occurred until August of that year.

Grace stared at the screen. How could they have known, before the fact, that there would be lawsuits? How could they...?

Understanding began to dawn then, slowly and horribly. The two dollar amounts. "Recall" and "Defective." Cost and benefit. The _dates_ …

Grace's stomach dropped sickeningly. She brought a hand up to cover her mouth.

"Oh, my God…"


	31. Enemy

Lisbon's voice cut sharply through the cold desert air. "Yes, I do realize the position you're in, Commissioner. I'm not questioning your need for a helicopter – I'm questioning your need for _all_ of the helicopters…"

A bureaucratic male voice droned in Lisbon's ear, spouting phrases like "bad PR" and "public safety."

"But you have no reason to believe that prisoner is dangerous!" she argued back. "He doesn't have a violent crime to his name – he was serving four years for tax fraud!" Lisbon made herself take a breath. "All I'm saying is, if you could just spare _one_ —"

The droning started up again – placating, condescending, infuriatingly calm…

"Fine," Lisbon fumed, cutting the Commissioner off mid-word. "Call me as soon as the helicopters are available." And she hung up.

Almost instantly, the phone began to trill again. Lisbon jammed it back against her ear.

"What?" she snarled.

There was a pause, and then Van Pelt's hesitant voice. "Boss?"

Lisbon sighed. "Sorry, Van Pelt. Bad timing. What do you need?"

"I found out why Paul Jorsten was killed…" The young agent sounded hushed, as though what she'd discovered was too horrible, too _wrong_ to be spoken aloud. Van Pelt was like that – still able to be genuinely shocked by the revolting acts of her fellow humans.

Lisbon, not so much. "Well?" she prodded.

Van Pelt took a deep breath. "It's all about the company. Durenko's bestseller, the Tyger ATV, had a defective part. The rear axle of the original model had a weak spot that could make it crack or break, especially at high speeds or over rough terrain. But by the time the company realized the problem, they'd already sold thousands of Tygers. _Hundreds_ of thousands," the young agent emphasized. "The cost of doing a recall at that point would have been upwards of thirty million. So…they didn't do one."

Lisbon frowned, her breath puffing thick and white. "But then, they'd be opening themselves up to major lawsuits, if anyone got hurt…"

"They knew that. Hoskins crunched the numbers, and figured out it would actually be cheaper for the company to pay off any lawsuits that arose, rather than recalling the entire product line. A few million dollars paid to a few affected families is pennies to Durenko – it even makes them look generous, while really they're saving a bundle." Disgust dripped from Van Pelt's voice.

Lisbon felt pretty certain that same disgust was etched on her own face. "But people might get seriously hurt – maybe even killed."

"People _were_ killed," Van Pelt told her. "A thirty-six-year-old man and a nine-year-old girl. The girl wasn't even riding the vehicle – she got hit by flying debris when it crashed. Another man was paralyzed…and it all could've been prevented."

Okay, maybe Lisbon couldn't be shocked, but she _could_ still be genuinely revolted. "So what about Paul, then?" she asked. "He found out somehow?"

"There's a cost/benefit analysis on Hoskins' computer. I think Paul came across it by accident. Hoskins must've realized what happened, and thought Paul was going to tell…"

Lisbon bit her lip, thinking hard.

"I know it's not enough yet," Van Pelt admitted. "It doesn't concretely tie Hoskins to Paul's murder, but—"

"That doesn't matter," Lisbon interrupted. "We'll keep digging until we find a way to connect him to the Jorstens. In the meantime, you've already got him cold on at least two counts of negligent homicide. Nice work."

"Thanks…" Van Pelt hesitated briefly before asking, "Boss, can I…?" Her voice held a meek note of hope.

Lisbon knew exactly what Van Pelt was asking for. And for once, gave it to her gladly:

"Arrest the son of a bitch."

"Thanks, boss!" Van Pelt gushed.

Lisbon rolled her eyes, wondering when the youngest member of her team had morphed into a twelve-year-old school girl.

"Call me when you're back in Sacramento," the senior agent instructed, and snapped the phone shut.

The soft click carried across the dark desert. High above, the stars glittered blue, silent and watching.

Lisbon sighed. Her breath filled the air and then drifted away, like a departing spirit. Without Van Pelt's voice in her ear, the night was cemetery quiet. Lisbon became hyper-aware of each rustle of fabric, every delicate crunch of dirt under her feet. Even the coyote had stopped howling…

Suddenly nervous, Lisbon pocketed the phone and swung her flashlight in a wide arc, scanning over dirt and rocks and sparse vegetation.

She sighed again, in relief. There was no one near.

Lisbon took out the compass Officer Michaels had given her and checked her bearings. She was still on course, heading straight Northeast. She put the compass away and swigged from her water bottle – another gift from Michaels. He'd also given her the backpack she was wearing, and half of the supplies inside it: three more water bottles, antibacterial baby wipes, and a small bag of Better Made potato chips.

If she'd needed the shirt off his back, Lisbon felt sure she would be wearing it right now, and poor Officer Michaels would be walking around shivering and bare-chested.

Poor Officer Michaels. He'd tried so hard to convince her not to come out here, had practically begged her to wait until daybreak, or at least until another officer was available to accompany her, and Lisbon knew he was right – she _should_ have waited.

But she'd seen the side of the garage.

There was an awful lot of blood smeared across that white aluminum. Jane's blood. Lisbon didn't know how she could live with waiting. She wasn't sure Jane _could_ live with it.

Lisbon checked the compass again. Jane, she mused, could probably navigate by the stars. An image came of him standing on the deck of a clipper ship, his hair wild with ocean breeze, blue eyes twinkling with starlight. It made Lisbon smile. Jane was an adventurous soul…

And a survivor, she reminded herself. He was a survivor.

Off in the distant black, a pinprick of white blinked into view. Lisbon squinted at it. The white bobbed.

A flashlight. Someone farther out than she was, heading due East, carrying a flashlight. As Lisbon watched, the light flashed brighter. The dot started to grow…

Someone heading right toward her, carrying a flashlight. And somehow, she seriously doubted it was Jane. Lisbon took out her gun. She stood there, poised, body singing with adrenaline, until the figure slowly melted into view. By the time she could make out the dark blue of the man's uniform, Lisbon's finger was cold and stiff on the trigger.

The stranger had a gun of his own. And it was pointed directly at her.

"CBI!" she shouted. "Identify yourself!"

The man in the cop uniform froze, but didn't lower his weapon. "Officer Ryan Kelly," he called back, in a deep Southern drawl, "Carmine Valley PD."

Lisbon relaxed her grip on the gun. "Officer Kelly, I'm Agent Lisbon – we spoke on the phone earlier."

She saw the line of tension ease from Kelly's shoulders. He holstered his gun and ambled forward to meet her. "Sorry about that, ma'am. Can't be too careful out here – Sheriff says there might still be an armed suspect in the area…"

"It's okay," Lisbon told him. She put away her weapon and shook the hand Kelly held out to her. "Caution is a good thing," she added, thinking of the one person in her life who never, ever seemed to use it.

Officer Kelly smiled. Lisbon took in the tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the little streaks of grey in his black mustache. It was funny – on the phone she'd pictured him much younger. Round-faced and boyish. An earnest rookie.

"Has there been any sign of Mr. Jane?" Kelly asked.

Lisbon shook her head, shoulders slumping. "Not so far. I take it you didn't find anything either?"

"Just dirt. And weeds. And a funny-lookin' rock…" There was a dark glint of frustration in his eyes.

Lisbon knew the feeling. "Well, there's a chance you may have been looking in the wrong direction – we believe he headed Northeast…" She was careful to say "we," even though she was really the only one who believed it. Sheriff Hamilton had been skeptical of her logic, at best.

Kelly, though, looked hopeful at the news. "Is that right?"

"There's a strong possibility. Now, I understand you've been out here searching for several hours, so if you need to head back or take a break—"

"No," he said, quickly and a little too sharply.

Lisbon raised an eyebrow.

Kelly dropped his head, contrite. "Sorry, ma'am, it's just…I'm _in_ this, now, you know? I don't want to quit until we find Mr. Jane, safe and sound…If it's all the same to you," he added, a touch hesitantly.

Lisbon smiled. "It's fine with me. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, right?"

Kelly smiled back, and his teeth flashed in the glow of Lisbon's light.

"Much better," he agreed.


	32. The Lie Detector

Jane's "dragon" turned out to be a magnificent rock formation, sculpted over centuries by the elaborate dance of particles on the wind. Two massive stone wings stretched high into the black sky, wild and jagged-edged as fire, while an elegant, swan-like neck formed a perfect gateway arch twenty feet above their heads.

Smooth at the bottom, crater-filled at the top, bigger than a double-decker bus and too crazy-beautiful to be anything made by man, the beast waited for them in the night. Looking up at it, Jane knew that they'd found their destination at last.

Now that he was near, the shape of the head actually seemed more "camel" than "giant reptile." Jane remembered a song from a Disney movie long ago:

" _He has the head of a camel, the neck of a crocodile…and the ears of a cow!"_

He tried not to think too much about the little girl who had sung it with him, riding high on his shoulders as he pranced alongside crashing waves. Jane focused instead on the little girl shivering next to him right now. He quickly shed his vest and draped it around her, then gifted her with his socks, as well, tugging the black fabric up toward her knees, only to have it fall in bundles around her ankles. Apparently, he had big feet…

The right one certainly was, at the moment – fat and puffy and bloated from the injury. Jane didn't bother to put the shoe back on that side. His toes felt better loose and free.

He looked at Penny for a moment, in her ridiculously over-sized vest and socks, then at the broad back of the dragon, a good fifteen feet above. There was space enough for two, up there. Space to lie flat and be concealed, space to stand tall and be seen. Height to let them see far into the distance, and thick stone wings to stop angry bullets. It was a perfect spot – _if_ they could make it up there…

Feeling the moans of every creaky joint, Jane carefully knelt down in front of the little girl, so that they were face to face. Eye to eye. He needed his words, now. There were things he had to tell her. Things she had to know, just in case. Jane glanced at the rock formation, and tried to keep his voice as soft as the sand. "Kind of looks like a dragon, doesn't it?"

He smiled. Penny stared.

"I'm going to lift you up," he told her, "so you can climb on his back. Climb right on his back and stay down, stay quiet. When you see a lady with dark hair and green eyes, that'll be my friend, Agent Lisbon. She'll take you home to your father. If anyone else comes, just stay hidden. If they call your name, don't answer. Wait for Agent Lisbon."

Penny's eyes remained distant, lost in the night. Her empty face gave no sign that she'd understood, or even heard. But when Jane rose to full height, and began to heft her skyward on quivering arms, Penny's hands reached out for the rock. Her pale fingers swept the stony surface, reading it like Braille, finding the best cracks and crannies. The little girl pulled herself higher, out of Jane's fading arms, and he stayed right beneath her, ready to catch her if she fell.

Penny scaled her way to a small ledge four feet above him and then huddled there like a baby bat, her face pressed to the stone. Jane could make out more rough outlines of handholds above her, but she made no move to reach for them. She made no move at all.

_Come on, Penny – don't freeze up now…_

"Almost there," he whispered, after a moment. "Just keep going..."

Slowly, Penny's head turned away from the rock. She looked down at Jane. And for once, her eyes were actually focused _on_ him, rather than lost in space. She blinked, and Jane saw expectation there. Like she was waiting for something. Waiting for _him_ , he realized.

The ghost of Laura Jorsten's voice floated through his head: _"She just doesn't like to be alone…"_

Jane's heart dipped, just a little.

"Go on," he tried, once more. Penny blinked at him, unmoving.

Jane sighed. He would do the best he could.

While Penny waited above, Jane readied his hands on the side of the rock. The scratchy surface pricked against his palms. His fingers bit down hard, willing traction. He breathed deep, and smelled rust from the iron deposits in the stone. Jane delicately placed his right foot on the incline. His bare toes curled against hard rock. He closed his eyes…

A small, cold hand folded around one of Jane's.

He looked up and saw Penny crouched low on the ledge, leaning forward as far as she could. Her fingers were white against his. Her grip was tight. Jane kept his eyes on their two hands, locked together, as he began to shift weight onto his throbbing right leg.

Fireworks of pain exploded hot and bright, stealing his breath. Dazzling sparks rained across his vision. His stomach rolled. Jane eased off the leg and leaned his face against cold stone, panting.

He could still feel Penny's hand, holding tight to his. Jane looked up at the rock once more, looming high in the darkness, the climb to safety almost entirely vertical. _Too_ vertical, for someone with only one leg. Too steep, too unforgiving.

Too hard.

Jane swallowed roughly. He sifted through his clever magician's brain, searching for something else to pull out of the hat. But for once, there were no two-headed quarters. No hopping paper frogs. No tricks. Jane sighed, long and deep, filling the air with white. He knew what he had to do. He met Penny's eyes, and she blinked at him.

"Keep going," Jane instructed. "Climb all the way up…I'll be there soon."

The lie felt like cat fur, brushed backwards - uncomfortable and wrong. Jane hated himself for it.

The little girl stared down at him, silent and inscrutable. An eternity seemed to pass where she didn't even blink. Finally, Penny's limbs shifted. She let go of his hand, and Jane's heart gave a hopeful flutter. But the first move she made took her down, not up, and the next step brought her lower still. Jane's heart sank like a certain doomed luxury ship.

Children. The very best lie detectors of all.

He sighed again, watching Penny's careful descent. The little girl who had doggedly followed his every command, now doing the exact opposite of what she'd been told. She got as far as she could on her own, and then looked calmly at him, waiting for help. Jane saw something in her steady gaze that wasn't stubbornness or defiance, but simply a choice:

_Not without you_.

Jane's throat tightened. He smiled, but it was sad.

"Okay," he said at last, reaching out to lift her down. "Okay…"


	33. The Guardian

Buck Hoskins strolled into the office, grinning like he was an extra-special gift, waiting for Grace under the Christmas tree. He had a small bag of Doritos in one hand, a steaming coffee in the other. "Miss me?" he teased.

Grace's own smile was feral. "You have no idea."

Hoskins chuckled. He deposited the coffee and chips on the desktop, then glanced at the computer, which had been turned off. "All done?"

"I've seen everything I need to," she told him.

Relief melted a few lines off the CEO's forehead. "Great! Should we head out, then? It's getting pretty late, and they're holding a fantastic table for us. We'll take my Mercedes. You can eat your chips on the way…"

"Sounds perfect," Grace purred. "Except for one thing."

Hoskins raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"I don't think you'll be able to drive with these on." She dangled a pair of handcuffs in front of him, and took a deep breath. "Buck Hoskins, you are _so_ under arrest."

Grace allowed herself one moment of vicious pleasure, watching that smile drop right off his face.

XxXxXxX

Jane and Penny settled in for the night under the majestic arch of their dragon's neck. Jane was reminded of stone gargoyles on ancient castle turrets, and the miniature versions people nowadays put on porches and beside walkways. Guardians to ward off intruders. Protectors, keeping homes and families safe.

It was all superstitious nonsense, of course. Plaster demons didn't keep the _real_ monsters away…

Jane sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning his head back until blond curls brushed stone. Sitting was a beautiful thing. He decided that he had never truly appreciated it before this moment. With Penny curled up beside him, a warm ball at his hip, Jane felt every tense, fearful, painful moment of the day slowly begin to seep out of him. Tendons uncoiled, and nerves smoothed. Muscles melted into quivering Jell-o. Relief rolled over him in blissful waves, and his body sang its approval.

Jane closed his eyes. Sitting had never _ever_ felt so good…

He thought of his soft brown couch, how comfortable it was…much like riding in the back of the CBI van on a warm afternoon, the rumble of road beneath him, bass beats bleeding from Rigsby's headphones, Cho reading, Lisbon and Van Pelt up front, talking low about yoga and girl-movies…The sun, warm on the seat…

Something touched Jane's thigh. He gasped, eyes startling open.

Penny had just rested her head in his lap. Jane stared down at her, his heart beating a fast-paced warning to his brain: The quiet un-spooling of his tight-wound thoughts. Long, deep breaths, sighing in and out of his chest. His jaw going slack…

Sleep. He'd been falling asleep.

Jane wasn't used to it happening like that – quick and easy, without any pills at all. He sat up straighter, and made his eyes stay open. Jane gave his weary brain a task: identify the constellations by name, and give a few facts about each. For a little while, it worked. Jane found Aries the Ram, and Bootes the Herdsman. He spotted Corvus the Crow, and Canis Major, with its twinkling bright luminary, Sirius.

After twenty minutes, though, the gears started winding down. His slow thoughts ambled from Andromeda the Chained Lady, to Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights. He remembered the one time he had seen them, how the beauty had burned right into him. A rainbow of fire, dancing and twisting across the midnight sky. He remembered looking up and thinking, just for those few breath-snatching moments, that maybe people weren't fools to believe in the afterlife…

He could hear Grace Van Pelt's voice, in all its conviction:

_The Kingdom of God is a real place, Mr. Jane…_

His mind cycled back to when she'd first joined the team, reliving lobster dinner and magic tricks, hardly aware that his eyelids were growing lazy. Rigsby had almost choked, that night…

Penny's exhales were soft and even, steady as a metronome. Hypnotic…

Rigsby was a good man…

This time when Jane jerked awake, it was with a flash of anger. He fisted his uninjured hand and pounded it against the rock.

No. No sleeping.

Jane almost laughed, as soon as he thought the words. " _No sleeping."_ Today was just chock-full of irony, wasn't it? All those years, waging war with insomnia…And now the _one_ time he could sleep – easily, deeply, completely – he wasn't allowed to. Because succumbing to slumber, that would be like leaving Penny. He couldn't leave her alone. Not like he had left _them_ , that night.

_That_ thought kept him sharp for a while; nothing like the old whip-crack of self-flagellation. But the sting gradually started to wear off, and Jane knew he had to do something else – something to keep the pain alive…

He shifted his broken leg, pressing it hard against the ground. A fresh fire-burst of agony popped his eyes wide. Acid swirled in his stomach. Jane breathed raggedly, watching the stars swim across the sky.

_Well, that worked quite nicely_ , he thought. He now had no desire to sleep, and a very powerful desire to cry.

He started shivering instead. Jane's teeth clacked and he huddled, utterly miserable, wishing for the pain to go away and stay at the same time. The chattering must have disturbed Penny, because she turned her head to look up at him. Jane smiled feebly, sure there was no blood left in his face. He stroked a shaky hand over her copper hair. Penny gave a soft sigh, and rested her cheek on his leg again.

Jane rubbed at his eyes. He wished Lisbon would get here soon…

Relief came slowly, in trickles and drips. His tremors eased, and his teeth stopped rioting. He was able to take full breaths instead of short gasps. The shrieking nerve-endings in his shattered leg went from opera-scream down to regular-person scream, and Jane let it all happen, let it all fade…right up until the moment he wanted to close his eyes.

Then, weary and resigned, he braced himself to do it all over again.


	34. First Light

The Jorstens' driveway was one long snake of unmoving vehicles. Rigsby steered slowly onto the dusty lawn, which resembled a mall parking lot on Black Friday: line after line of crookedly parked cars, with bustling pedestrians weaving in between. Just as Rigsby found a spot, a tall man in a brown uniform jogged past the headlights, tugged along by an enormous, snuffling Bloodhound.

Rigsby cracked the door and called after him, "Hey! We're with the CBI – can you tell us where to find Sheriff Hamilton?"

The man pulled his dog to a stop and pointed at the house. "Should be up there."

Rigsby nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

The Bloodhound man hurried off.

Cho came around the van's warm hood, and he and Rigsby headed for the house together.

The Jorsten home was lit up like a giant jack-o-lantern against the still-black sky, gold light pouring from a few upstairs windows and all the downstairs ones to form two "eyes" and a sinister, gap-toothed smile. The agents found Sheriff Hamilton in the kitchen, on his cell phone. He quickly directed them outside, behind the garage, where the K-9 Unit from three counties over was getting ready to start its search.

The unit looked ready enough, from where Rigsby stood – six men and one woman were standing in a line, each holding the leash of an eager-looking dog. Four Rottweilers, two German Shepherds, one Bloodhound. All of the dogs were facing the steep rise behind the Jorstens' property. After a moment, the Bloodhound started baying. His handler patted him, and then continued conversing with another officer.

Rigsby jogged over to them.

The Bloodhound man offered a hand. "Rick Davis, K-9 Unit."

"Wayne Rigsby, CBI. And that's Agent Cho, over there."

"You find the sheriff?" Davis asked.

"Yeah…Um, he said you guys were getting ready to head out?" Rigsby looked questioningly around at the milling, chatting officers.

"That's right," Davis confirmed. "Come first light, we're taking off. You and Agent Cho are welcome to join us."

"Thanks," Rigsby mumbled. He jogged back over to Cho.

"What're they waiting for?" Cho asked.

"First light…"

Cho stared at the K-9 people for a moment, then at the rise that led up to the desert. "Screw that," he said, and started climbing.

Grinning, Rigsby hurried after him.

XxXxXxX

He was smiling again. She didn't like that.

Grace examined Hoskins through slitted eyes. Cat eyes. He blinked up at her innocently. After the initial shock of being arrested, the CEO had quickly recovered his cool. He'd flirted with her shamelessly on the drive back to Sacramento, going so far as to "forgive" Grace for arresting him, and assuring her that this "minor misunderstanding" wouldn't have any impact on their date.

Their date? As if.

Grace circled the interview table like a red-tailed hawk.

Even now, sitting handcuffed in the CBI interrogation room, Hoskins wasn't giving up.

"Come _on_ ," he drawled. "Can't we just forget this nonsense? There's still plenty of time to make that reservation…"

"I don't think you realize how serious this is," Grace told him.

"It's only serious if I'm guilty, and I'm not – I didn't kill Paul…"

"No," she agreed. "You just ordered the hit on him."

Hoskins laughed. "'Ordered the hit?' Do I look like a mobster to you?"

"You look like the best friend of one."

The CEO's face soured a little. "You read my emails."

Grace made her own expression of distaste. "Unfortunately…By the way, how did that cream work out for you? Did it take care of all those itchy little crabs? I'd really like to know before our _date_ …"

Buck Hoskins' eyes flashed their true color: Red. He clasped his hands together, extra-tight. "Those were private letters between myself and an old high school friend – who, by the way, has never been convicted of anything. There's no mention of Paul, or guns, or killing, or 'hits' in any of those emails. You have no case."

"Then let's talk about the case we _do_ have – the one where you knowingly allowed your own customers to be seriously injured and killed, just to save a few bucks. A jury will love that case…"

The CEO regarded her flatly. "Whatever document you found, or _think_ you found, you obviously misread it. Durenko values the lives and well-being of its customers above all else. We're a _family_ company." He smiled malevolently, and Grace turned away from the sight.

She walked to the huge mirror and studied her own reflection. Her face was too soft to crack someone. Too pretty. She needed to be diamond-hard. Monster-ugly. Red John-scary. Grace molded her features until she was looking at a blank mask, with eyes made of ice. Empty, barren, pitiless.

Even Cho would've been impressed.

"You know," Grace began, slowly turning back to face Hoskins. "We're going to get you eventually. We always do. No one closes more cases than Serious Crimes. That's why the bosses keep us around…" She walked to the table and stood right over Hoskins, looking down on him. "So, we'll get you on negligent homicide. We'll get you for Paul's murder, and the murder of his wife. The question is…how many _more_ murders do you want us to get you for?"

Hoskins raised an eyebrow. "More murders? As far as I know, no one else has died…"

"Not yet. But right now, right while we're saying these words, a hitman sent by your friend Brody – on _your_ request – is out gunning for a CBI employee and an innocent little girl." Grace tilted her head, regarding Hoskins with sterile detachment.

"Have you ever seen a picture of Penny Jorsten?" she asked. "I bet Paul kept one on his desk. That sweet, hopeful, freckly face, so vibrant and full of life…" Grace blinked. Hoskins said nothing. "No? Well, you'll get to see it at the trial. The DA will put Penny's picture up next to Paul's and Laura's and all the other people you murdered. Including that other little girl, who died from flying debris…What was she, nine? She probably had a sweet face, too. And a nice smile. Juries just eat that stuff up. They love labels, too – 'Mobster,' 'Hitman,' 'Thug,' ' _Child-Killer_ – "

"What do you want from me?" Hoskins snapped.

Grace stared right into his eyes, burning cold. "I want you to make sure Penny Jorsten and my friend come home safe."

"I don't have any control over that…"

"I think you do." Grace reached into her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Hoskins' cell phone, confiscated at the time of his arrest. She set it on the table. "I'm going to step outside for a few minutes. I'm going to make sure the hallway is clear, and that the microphone in this room is turned off. You can just sit here and think about how many pictures you want at that trial." She slid the phone toward him with an exaggerated, read-between-the-lines gesture, and turned to leave.

Hoskins' voice came from behind: "You're making a mistake, you know. We could have been great together…"

"I don't date murderers," Grace told him, and walked away.

XxXxXxX

Lisbon hung up her phone and grinned at the stars.

Minelli had just called, promising helicopters – no matter how much string-pulling and black-mailing it took.

_I might be retired_ , he'd told her, _but I still know where all the skeletons are…_

And just before that, Cho had checked in. He and Rigsby were on site, headed her way, and the FBI was en route, too. Lisbon sighed happily. The sky smiled down on her, like a sparkling Cheshire cat.

"Good news?" Officer Kelly asked, watching her curiously.

"Yeah. It looks like we're finally going to get some real help…"

"Oh? Did the K-9 Unit get here?"

"K-9's here, CBI's here, helicopters and FBI are on the way," she informed him merrily.

Kelly raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like a regular circus. We should find Mr. Jane in no time, with all those people lookin'…Hey, how soon do you think—" He was cut off by a sudden chirp from his phone. Kelly examined the white-glowing screen with emotionless eyes, reading whatever message was there before typing back a short reply.

"Everything all right?" Lisbon asked.

"Oh, gosh, yeah. That was just my wife. She likes to check on me – especially when I miss dinner…" He ducked his head shyly.

At the mention of dinner, Lisbon's stomach made a noise she'd once heard at the San Diego Zoo. She remembered the chips in her backpack and fished them out. A wonderful waft of potato-smell hit her as she tore open the pouch.

Lisbon held the bag out to Kelly first. "I know it's not exactly a home-cooked meal, but…"

He gratefully took a handful. "Thanks. The dirt was actually starting to look appetizing…"

Lisbon laughed. She shoveled a pile of chips into her mouth, devoured them, and immediately dove in for more, not caring if she looked undignified. They were greasy and delicious.

Kelly ate more slowly, fishing one chip at a time from his palm. A tiny crumb got stuck to his lower lip, and he brushed the speck away with a bashful smile.

Lisbon smiled back. She had potato chips in her belly and helicopters on the way.

For the first time in a very long night, she felt something like hope.


	35. Discovery

A faint tinge of green along the horizon was all that indicated the coming dawn. A person would have to look carefully, to even see it. Cho always looked carefully. He scanned the ground with his small Maglite, noticing spider web cracks in the dry earth. Too dry for footprints. There had been blood, early on, but now the soil was clean. Cho walked swiftly, striding with the speed of someone much taller. Rigsby crunched along beside him – gangly, awkward and familiar.

They didn't say much.

When the sky began to bleed pale grey light, Cho took out his pocket-sized binoculars. Far off to the right, something caught his eye.

"I see something." He handed the binoculars to Rigsby and pointed. "Over there."

Rigsby squinted through the lenses. "I think that's just a rock…"

"The tall thing's a rock. There's something else underneath it."

"Oh, yeah, I see it…Can't tell what it is, though. Weeds, maybe?" Rigsby lowered the binoculars and glanced at Cho.

"Maybe." Cho was still gazing at the distant, unknown object.

"Could be a cactus," Rigsby offered.

Cho said nothing.

"Think we should go – " Rigsby started to ask, but Cho was already moving forward. Rigsby trotted to catch up. "Probably should check it out, yeah," he said, more to himself than anyone.

The closer they got, the more certain Cho became: It wasn't weeds. Or a cactus. The shape was dark, its uneven lumps oddly familiar. Years as an agent and a soldier had shown Cho many similar shapes – dead bodies, taped up inside plastic or carpet; human remains, shallowly buried in dirt or leaves, or else left out in plain sight, bloody and mauled. Rigsby must have picked up on it, too, because at the exact same moment, both agents began to jog. By the time they could see the black of congealed blood, they were running.

" _Jane!_ " Rigsby called out, his voice cracking on the word. It echoed through the desert along with their crashing feet as they arrived next to the body.

Rigsby took one look and immediately turned away. "Aw, God…"

Cho stood motionless and stared at the shredded mess. His heart was beating very fast.

"Is it – is it him?" Rigsby managed to choke out, still not looking.

Cho swallowed hard. "I don't know." He made himself look closer. The body was lying stiffly on its side. It was an adult male. Completely nude. The face had been mutilated…badly. Nose and lips carved off, eyes stabbed to pulp, scalp sliced away to reveal the white of skull. The teeth had been pulled out, and each finger had been cut off. Cho swallowed again.

Behind the dead man's ear, something fluttered. Cho leaned in, squinting. A tiny tuft of hair flapped back and forth in the breeze. Glossy, raven-black hair…

Cho exhaled shakily. "It's not him," he announced.

"Y-you sure?" Rigsby asked.

"Positive."

Rigsby turned around. His face had the same green tinge as the morning sky. "Thank God…" he breathed.

Cho nodded. "Yeah." Then he took out his phone to call in the gruesome discovery.

XxXxXxX

Agent Lisbon was good company – sharp as a brand-new hunting knife, and feisty, too. Nick was glad he hadn't shot her on sight. If she had ever met Officer Ryan Kelly face-to-face, there would have been no choice – just a quick squeeze of the trigger, a hole in that pretty forehead, and lady-agent brains, sprayed all over the dirt.

But, by her own admission, Agent Lisbon had only talked to Kelly over the phone. She didn't know that Ryan Kelly had beetle-black hair and the round, rosy cheeks of someone too young – and too happy – to be a cop. She didn't know that Officer Ryan Kelly didn't have a mustache. These things had saved Agent Lisbon…for now. And she'd been useful:

It was Lisbon who'd given Nick the tip about Northeast, when he'd been going the wrong way. It was Lisbon who'd given him chips when his gut was aching, and warned him that the helicopters and dogs were coming. It was Lisbon who would help him find Blowtorch and the kid. Then, Nick would kill all three of them, and finally be done with this pig's ass of an assignment.

Thinking of pigs and their asses made Nick think of Buck Hoskins. This whole bloody, charred, mutilated mess was Hoskins' fault – even more than it was Brody's. Hoskins, the boss' best friend. Hoskins, the CEO who didn't even know how to delete a fucking file. Hoskins, the paranoid, sackless prick who kept insisting more people had to die to protect his filthy little secret. If Nick ever heard that man's name again after today, he would spit on the ground.

Hopefully, some of it would hit Hoskins' shoes.

The job had started out simple enough: Put the fear of God in a man named Paul Jorsten. Make sure he never opened his mouth to anyone about some defective part. So, Nick had followed Paul from work one day, cornered him behind a BP gas station, and put a knife to his throat. Nick told Paul every sloppy detail of what would be done to his wife and daughter, if he ever talked. Nick told Paul how he would be tied to a chair, with his eyes taped open, forced to watch as these sloppy details unfolded.

Paul took the warning to heart. He sobbed like a six-year-old girl, begging and promising. A wet stain darkened his khaki pants as he literally peed himself.

Mission accomplished.

When Nick said someone wasn't going to talk, the person wasn't going to talk. Period. It was good enough for the boss. But not for Hoskins – no, he kept calling at all hours, moaning about how Paul had fallen off the wagon, how he might let something slip, if he was plastered enough. So, the boss had ordered a hit. Still, a pretty easy paycheck: Nick and Brode had tailed Paul to a bar called "Lucky's," hauled his drunken ass out into a nearby alley, and shot him in the head. No problem.

And yet, Hoskins _still_ wasn't satisfied. Because how could they be sure Paul hadn't mentioned something to his wife, before he'd been killed? How could they be certain he hadn't left her a letter, or a note somewhere? It wasn't long before Nick and his partner had a new assignment: Snuff the wife, and search the house.

It was overkill, and Nick knew it. If the lady knew anything, she would've already been singing. To the cops, to the media, to lawyers and anyone else who would listen. Eliminating her would draw unnecessary attention. He pointed these things out to the boss. The boss agreed. And yet…

"Could you just take care of it anyway, Nicky? As a favor to me?"

So, Nick went along with it. You didn't say "no" to the boss.

Now, twenty hours later, Brody's head was a pile of ash, two live witnesses were on the loose, and Nick was freezing his dick off in the middle of the desert. But all of that wasn't what made Nick want to shove a salad fork through Buck Hoskins' left eye socket. No, the very _last_ straw, that tiny little plant fiber that made the camel's spine go _SNAP_ , had been the text. A simple, one-word message, sent from Hoskins' phone to Nick's:

"ABORT."

Scrap the mission. Screw the job. Cut the losses.

Nick's lips peeled back as he thought of his reply:

"LIKE HELL."

Nick didn't take orders from pigs' asses. Only from the boss.

Lisbon's phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. She answered, and Nick saw her face grow tense in the grey morning light. He couldn't hear who was on the other end, but he had an idea what the call was about.

After a brief, clipped conversation, Agent Lisbon instructed someone named "Cho" to keep her informed. Then she hung up and turned to Nick. "Two of my agents found a body, somewhere East of the Jorsten property. They haven't been able to make an ID yet, due to extensive mutilation of the face and hands…But they _did_ determine that it isn't Jane…" Lisbon sighed shakily.

Nick stumbled over a rock in the sand. He quickly regained his balance. "How'd they figure that?" he asked, remembering to do the accent just right.

"There was a small amount of hair left on the scalp that doesn't match Jane's hair color."

_Damn_ , Nick thought. _Missed a spot._

"Well, that's darn good news," he said out loud. "I'm awful glad it's not him…Wonder who it could be, though..."

"Me, too," Lisbon agreed.

"Do you think there was a third perp, instead of just two?" Nick offered. "Like, maybe one of them turned on the other?"

Agent Lisbon looked uncertain. "Maybe…"

"I bet it was. It's just like those mafia gutter rats to stab each other in the back…" Nick was trying to think fast, now – throwing wet crap against the wall and hoping some of it would stick.

He hadn't expected them to rule out Blowtorch so soon. Based on Brody's description, Nick knew Mr. Jane was white and blond. Nick had tried to cut off all the parts that didn't match: face and hair, fingers which could be printed and teeth which could be compared to old x-rays. Only DNA should've been left. DNA, which took forever to test.

But Nick had gotten careless, and now they knew the corpse couldn't possibly be Blowtorch. Plus, the body had been found to the East – the same direction Nick was heading when Lisbon first spotted him. She wasn't a moron. She had never met Kelly in person. If she asked Nick for a picture ID right now…

He searched her face for any hint, any sign that she was starting to catch on. Her green eyes were dark and serious, studying the landscape ahead. Nick didn't see suspicion in them, not yet, but it was coming. Like a black, rumbling cloud on the horizon, it was coming…

He started to reach for his gun…

"Look," Lisbon said suddenly, pointing into the distance. "Do you see that?"

Nick glanced up, and saw a distant silhouette, fuzzy and indistinct in the morning mist. Too large for a human. Too oddly-shaped for a building. "Probably just a rock formation," he told her.

"No," she insisted. "There's something else…"

Nick squinted. A thin, curved protrusion extended from one side of the rock like the archway over a gate, or the neck of a brontosaurus. Directly underneath, a smaller shape was huddled. A smaller, _moving_ shape. Nick's heart quickened. "You're right. There's _definitely_ something." And it wasn't a damn cactus, this time.

Agent Lisbon broke into a jog. "Jane?" she called out hopefully. "Jane!"

Nick trotted after her, careful to stay a little ways behind as he slipped Kelly's service weapon from its holster. The shape under the rock started to move more vigorously.

Lisbon ran even faster. " _Jane_!"

Nick lagged back, letting the gap between them grow. By now, he could make out two distinct shapes under the rock – one big, one small. Cool, swirling fog melted into solid detail, and Nick knew for sure: He'd found his long-lost witnesses at last…

Agent Lisbon didn't even seem to notice that Nick was no longer by her side. She had eyes for one, and one alone. The man on the ground waved at her. He was smaller than Nick had imagined. Frailer, somehow. Dark blood stained the man's hip and hand. There was a little bit crusted around one of his ears, and his face was white as bone. He was smiling broadly. A little redheaded girl was balled up next to him.

Nick watched Agent Lisbon drop to her knees beside them. She leaned in close and spoke in gentle tones, her hand going first to the man's hip, then his blood-black palm. Even from behind, Nick could see the tenderness in every motion.

Silently, he clicked off the safety and raised his gun.

_So long, Agent Lisbon. It's been real…_


	36. Team Lisbon

The morning arrived on tiptoe. It poked its head out shyly, first the color of a newborn bean sprout, then the grey of an angry ocean, then finally the faint pink of a healthy cheek on a frosty winter morning.

But California didn't have seasons…The ocean could never be mad, and the sky was neither sick, nor healthy. Jane, however, was very slightly delirious. His hand and his hip beat like hot kettle drums, in perfect sync with one another. He kept shifting, trying to quiet them. There didn't seem to be a comfortable position.

Mist started to roll in, washing clean and fresh against his sweaty skin, and a growing chorus of birdsong filled the air, serenading the coming sun. Chirping, warbling, whistling, cooing…Nature always had the best music. It wasn't long before Jane heard a new instrument join the harmony – the distant murmur of human voices.

He felt Penny stiffen, and knew she heard them, too. Jane listened harder, realizing that he could hear with both ears again. The voices were low, muddy, indistinct. Gradually, they crystallized, coming into focus like the two silhouettes Jane could now see approaching through the fog. One outline, in particular, made Jane's kettle drums beat faster. One voice, in particular, made a whole symphony burst to life inside his chest:

"Jane? Jane!"

A slow smile spread across his face. He sat forward and opened his mouth to call back, but his tongue was tarred to the roof of his mouth. Lisbon must've spotted him anyway, because she started running.

" _Jane_!"

He waved at her, grinning absurdly.

Lisbon dropped to her knees right beside him, searching with her eyes. Jane could see the shadow of Bosco in them, the ghost of that too-recent trauma, as she took in the sight of the blood.

"Are you all right?" she asked urgently, her hands brushing skin torn by glass and lead. "Jane? Talk to me…"

He wanted to tell her he was fine, but his voice was like dry leaves. No sound would come out. Jane tried to keep smiling reassuringly, but something was starting to feel off. They were found, they were safe at last, and yet…there was a strange note of discord, jarring the triumphant melody. Like two adjacent piano keys, held down at the same time. Jane couldn't quite place the feeling, but it made his smile falter.

Penny was sitting up now, eyeing the newcomers warily. She blinked at Lisbon for a moment, then glanced at the male police officer, who hung back from the scene like a shadow. Jane looked at him, too – this officer, dressed in deepest blue, who for some reason had his gun out…

Jane's smile slipped further.

This officer, dressed in deepest blue, with an ill-fitting wedding ring, and a salt-and-pepper mustache, _who for some reason had his gun RAISED_.

"Lisbon," Jane tried to whisper.

No sound came out. He licked his lips, but there was no spit – none. The kettle drums were slamming. Jane caught Lisbon's eyes and held them hostage. Electric sparks lit the air as he stared into her, unblinking.

Lisbon started to look afraid. "What? Jane, _what_?"

He folded his cut, aching hand into the shape of a gun and mouthed the words:

Behind. You.

Her eyes flew wide. Lisbon spun and drew at the same time. There was a mighty _crack_ that made Jane flinch and silenced all the birds, and then a soft thump as Mustache Man's still-twitching body hit the desert sand.

Penny had buried herself in Jane's chest, cringing and shaking all over, still trying to cover her ears even though the loud part was over. He rubbed slow, soothing circles into her back, whispering with his fingers that she was safe.

Lisbon was frozen in a half-crouch, her weapon still raised, staring at the man she'd just shot. She slowly climbed to her feet. Never once lowering her gun, every movement screaming caution, Lisbon approached the body. She kicked Mustache Man's gun out of reach and checked him for a pulse. Then, finally, she turned back to Jane.

Lisbon's green eyes were huge and dazed. Dark hair puffed off her face with every hard, fast breath.

Jane smiled faintly at her.

"Go team," he rasped.


	37. Sunrise

Lisbon watched as Jane made Penny Jorsten take deep breaths, coaching her on when to inhale, when to exhale. His face was calm as he patted the little girl's back. Penny's fingers clutched at his shirt, her cheek pressed tight to his chest as she shook. Jane just kept patting, the soft rhythm like second nature.

He was such a child, Lisbon sometimes forgot he was also a father.

Gradually, Penny's tremors quieted under his touch. Lisbon handed Jane an _Evian_ bottle, but he struggled to open it, wincing. She quickly took it back and cracked the seal for him. Jane gave the bottle to Penny.

"Slow sips," he instructed, his voice so scratchy it almost hurt to hear it. The little girl obediently took a small, careful swig, waited a moment, and then took another. Jane looked hopefully up at Lisbon. She already had a fresh bottle ready for him.

Jane took three long swallows, then closed his eyes and smiled reverently. "Ahh."

Lisbon smiled back. Jane opened his eyes and patted the empty spot beside him. Lisbon gratefully sank into it, crossing her weary legs and plopping Officer Michaels' backpack in her lap. She'd already called for help. There wasn't much more to do except take care of Jane and Penny until the rest of the cavalry arrived.

The little girl didn't have any apparent injuries, and had flinched away from Lisbon's touch when Lisbon tried to look her over, so the agent decided to leave a full exam up to the paramedics. Jane, on the other hand, had several obvious wounds – and maybe some not-so-obvious ones, as well.

He made faces as Lisbon swabbed his bloody hand with antibacterial wipes. Stripped of its grime, the skin around the cut was a puffy, furious red, and hot to the touch. Lisbon frowned. She tried to feel Jane's forehead, but he dodged her hand.

He wouldn't let her look at his hip, either.

"You don't want to see it," he told her. "It's ugly." Then he laid a protective hand over the red-stained spot, a tiny hint of color rising in his ghostly cheeks.

Lisbon wondered if he was actually feeling shy. Embarrassed, maybe, at the prospect of pulling his pants down in front of her. Of all the ridiculous times to be self-conscious...

But Jane was always so buttoned-up, so _intensely_ private. It had actually been a shock, just to see his bare foot. Lisbon didn't think she'd ever seen his toes before. She decided not to push him on the hip wound. Let him keep whatever kernel of dignity he was trying to hold onto. He wasn't actively bleeding, and the medics would be here soon.

Lisbon turned her attention to the naked foot instead. The missing socks were no mystery; they were bundled around Penny's ankles. But Lisbon did wonder at the lack of a shoe. She was about to ask about it when Jane leaned over and plucked a wipe from the pack. He tenderly mopped a tiny smudge of crusted blood from Penny's cheek.

Lisbon noticed that even as the rest of his body moved, the leg with the bare foot remained utterly still. On closer inspection, she could see a small bump under the fabric of his pants, half-way up his shin. There wasn't any blood, though…

"What's wrong with your leg?" she asked.

Jane stopped cleaning Penny's face and turned to Lisbon. "I got shot," he informed her. "My first time. Think they'll give me a medal?" His eyes crinkled at the corners.

"No, there." She pointed, and his sparkle faded.

"Broken," Jane said.

By the look on his face, Lisbon didn't doubt it. She leaned forward, reaching out to slide up his pant-leg, but stopped when she saw Jane turn slightly green. He didn't want to see it. Lisbon decided she didn't need to look.

"The paramedics will be here soon," she told him, settling back against the rock.

Jane nodded, white-faced.

"Drink some more water," Lisbon instructed.

He smiled faintly. "Yes, Mom."

While Jane sipped, Lisbon glanced over at the body of the man she'd shot. She didn't even know his real name. And he'd walked right beside her most of the night – evil, hidden in plain sight. Lisbon's thoughts suddenly turned to the search party, the paramedics. In just a short time, there would be a swarm of uniforms here. Sirens and dogs and helicopter blades and vehicles, all piling on top of each other in loud, chaotic confusion.

Another perfect place to hide in plain sight…

"There were just the two of them, right?" she asked Jane. "Just him, and the one back at the house?"

"Just the two," Jane confirmed.

Lisbon nodded. "Good."

Jane gazed out at the rising sun, a ruby glow lighting his tired face. "So," he said slowly, "You found the man at the house…"

"Yes."

"He was dead?"

"Yes…"

Jane's eyes were unreadable, lost on the horizon.

"You didn't have a choice," Lisbon told him. "He had a gun, he would've killed you. It was self-defense…"

Jane turned and studied her face for a long moment. Finally, he said, "I didn't set him on fire, Lisbon."

"Oh."

She couldn't deny the rush of relief, irrational as it was. Everything she'd just told Jane was true: He would have been fully justified in using lethal force to defend himself. And yet, she was glad he hadn't – just like she was secretly glad whenever he flinched at the sound of gunshots, winced at the sight of a messy corpse, leapt back to avoid a flying fist.

If Jane could burn a man alive, then Jane could also cut a man open and watch him die slow. Lisbon was glad to have a reason – _any_ reason – to keep hoping that the future might not be as dark as Jane painted it.

She didn't realize she was smiling until Jane smiled back.

"You're in a good mood," he commented.

She shrugged. "Just glad you're all right."

"Ah," Jane said. There was a knowing look on his face, as if he'd guessed her thoughts from a moment ago. Lisbon was almost afraid he would say something to puncture her bubble, point out how this situation and the Red John one were entirely different. Grimly tell her that his mind – and his plans – had not changed.

But he didn't. Instead, Jane cocked his head, and pointed at the sky. "Do you hear that?"

Lisbon listened.

Off in the distance, not yet in sight, she could make out the faint chugging of a helicopter.


	38. The Seventh Circle

Three hours later, Lisbon sat in a brown plastic chair, contemplating Hell. Dante had described the underworld as having nine circles – one for each different category of sin. Somehow, Lisbon doubted that all nine of those levels, put together, could approach the singularly torturous experience of a trip to the hospital with _Jane_ as the patient.

At first, the doctors had wanted to keep him overnight. At first, Lisbon had been inclined to agree with them: Jane was sick and hurt, dehydrated and exhausted.

But that was before he made a young intern cry by telling her she'd just wasted years of her life - and hundreds of thousands of dollars - training to do something she didn't love, all to impress a father who would never be impressed by anything. That was before Jane pushed all the buttons on the elevator when the orderlies were trying to take him up for his x-ray. It was before Jane started writing fake names on the surgical dry-erase board: "B. Merry," "C. Ulater," "Dr. Dontnojack."

By this point, both Lisbon and St. Michael's Regional Medical Center had had a significant change of heart. They'd given Jane plenty of IV fluids, a shot of antibiotics, and three prescriptions, which Rigsby was currently having filled at the hospital pharmacy. There were six stitches in Jane's hand, and eight in his hip. A bright blue cast was drying on his leg. One of the nurses had brought him a pair of aluminum crutches, which Jane instantly began to use for everything _except_ walking. Lisbon had already been poked twice.

Even now, sitting out in the hallway, she could hear him drumming a beat against the side rails of his bed.

Penny Jorsten had been examined, treated and released almost an hour ago. Sheriff Hamilton had finally managed to contact the girl's father, and arranged for him to meet them back at CBI headquarters. The only thing they were waiting on was Jane.

Lisbon bent low over the clipboard, scribbling out form after form, just trying to get done so everybody could have some peace. The scent of rubbing alcohol was strong in her nostrils. Jane's incessant percussion attempts were making her skull throb. She checked off the last few boxes on the release papers, stormed into Jane's room, and thrust the clipboard at him.

"Sign it," she ordered.

"I haven't read it," he complained.

Lisbon took a menacing step closer, looming over the bed. "Jane, so help me God, if you don't—"

He propped the crutches against the railing and held up his hands. "All right, all right…No need to get bent out of shape."

Jane scrawled his signature in the numerous spaces she had marked for him. The instant his pen left the last page, Lisbon snatched the clipboard back and strode briskly for the nearest Nurses' Station.

The sooner she could escape this Hell, the better.


	39. Pink Cotton Candy

Jane felt relaxed. _Really_ relaxed.

It was a nice feeling, and he let himself float in it, bobbing lightly, not even trying to open his eyes. Everything was pleasantly fuzzy. After a while, he became aware of motion. Soft bumps and easy turns. Other things drifted in, too: the smell of cotton candy and buttery popcorn, the feel of a very small, very warm someone cuddled up beside him. Jane snuggled closer, breathing the sweet scents.

They must have taken her to the fair…

A trip to the carnival was always pure magic for the little golden-haired child next to him…and bittersweet, for her parents. But hearing his daughter's squeals of delight on the Ferris Wheel, seeing her hugging some ridiculous purple unicorn he'd won her, the joy far outweighed the sorrow.

Jane must have fallen asleep on the way home. He felt like he had been sleeping for years. Jane knew he should wake up, offer to drive for a while. But he was so warm, so relaxed…

So incredibly, inexplicably happy.

The car made another turn, slowed, and eased to a stop. Jane felt the engine tick off, and heard the soft hiss of the tired car, decompressing after a long journey. Jane smiled sleepily.

_Home…_

A door opened, and shut. Another door opened, and humid, blanket-warm air billowed inside. Long hair tickled against Jane's face.

"Rise and shine, sleepyheads – we're here."

_Not_ his wife's voice. Jane's smile froze. The child next to him squirmed groggily. He reached over to stroke her hair, and felt straight, smooth tresses – no ringlets. He opened his eyes and saw not gold, but red. Up front, Rigsby was slumped over in the passenger seat, a tuft of pink clinging to the corner of his mouth.

Reality was a swift dagger, right to the chest. Jane could barely breathe around the pain of it. For just a moment, he'd thought…

Lisbon stood in the open door, peering inside. She held out a hand to help Penny Jorsten climb down, then looked at Jane, who hadn't moved.

"You all right?" Lisbon asked.

Jane smiled at her, his heart still gushing blood. "Right as rain."


	40. Ruby Slippers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, bottom-of-the-heart THANK YOU to all readers, especially those who took the time to leave comments or kudos; you guys made posting this story on AO3 a real pleasure! Also, major THANKS go to tromana and MentalistLover. Although they don't know it, both of these people helped this story get finished. And now, on to the last chapter!

Lisbon led the way down the CBI corridor. Jane crutched along behind her, and Penny ambled next to him, her brand-new hot pink Converse tennis shoes squeaking on the tile. Cho and Rigsby brought up the rear.

A few yards ahead, Van Pelt stepped out of an open office door. She saw them coming, and smiled like the desert sunrise. "Jane!" she beamed, trotting over to give him a hug.

Jane patted her awkwardly. "Hey, Grace…"

Van Pelt stepped back, looking him over. "But what're you doing here? I thought you were supposed to stay in the hospital…"

Lisbon gave the young agent a dark look. " _Don't_ ask."

Rigsby, too, was shaking his head in warning.

Van Pelt raised her eyebrows. "Oh…Okay."

"Is Cardelli here yet?" Lisbon asked.

"He's waiting in your office." Van Pelt smiled sweetly down at Penny. "I can take you to see your dad, now, if you want – he can't wait to see you." She held out a hand to the little girl.

Penny looked up at Jane.

"It's okay," he assured her. "Go ahead."

Slowly, Penny reached out and took Van Pelt's hand, letting the agent guide her to the bullpen. The rest of the herd followed more sluggishly. Jane's hand was heavily bandaged, but it still twinged whenever he put weight on the crutches. He was saving the good pain pills for sleep. Judging by the way that _one_ Vicodin had utterly knocked him out on the ride home, Jane had a feeling they were going to come in handy.

Hobbling past one of the interrogation rooms, Jane spotted a man sitting inside. A smug-faced man in a business suit, looking bored as he played with the chain on his handcuffs. Jane paused. Lisbon walked back to stand next to him. Cho and Rigsby filed past.

Jane peered through the glass at the bored, smug-looking man. "Is that…?"

"Buck Hoskins," Lisbon confirmed. "CEO of Durenko Sports, Inc."

Jane kept staring, something cold and black settling around his heart. Abruptly, he pushed through the door and into the room. Lisbon waited on the threshold while Jane limped over to the table, his gaze riveted to Hoskins.

The CEO glanced up, eyebrows raised. "Uh…can I help you?"

Jane looked down on him, all steel and ice. "She didn't know anything."

"Excuse me?"

"Laura Jorsten didn't know anything. You killed her for _nothing_." Jane's voice shook, just a little.

Hoskins opened his mouth, but Jane didn't wait around to see what would come out of it. He turned and limped out, leaving the CEO to stare after him.

"You okay?" Lisbon asked, once they were back in the hall.

"Fine."

"He won't get away with it, you know," she told him.

"I know."

They reached the bullpen in time to see Jeff Cardelli carrying his daughter out of Lisbon's office. Penny's legs dangled as she perched on her father's hip, her arms tight around him. Her pink shoes were the brightest thing in the whole room. Cho had bought them for her at Walmart, along with a crisp white t-shirt and blue jeans. It made Jane smile, thinking of Cho picking out pink shoes.

Cardelli saw Jane, and hurried over to him. Very gently, Cardelli set his daughter down and reached out to shake Jane's unbandaged hand.

"Thank you," Cardelli said earnestly, his voice rough and raw, his hand squeezing Jane's. "Thank you for protecting her…"

Jane nodded, shifting uncomfortably. "Sure, sure…"

They let go, and Cardelli looked down at Penny. "Don't know what I'd've done, if…" His voice trailed off. He glanced up at Jane again. "Well, you know."

Jane _did_ know. He swallowed roughly, studying Cardelli's face. The man's eyes were red and wet with heartbreak, but his hair was combed today. His shirt was clean and tucked. He was trying, at least.

Penny stayed close to his leg, fiddling with a crease in his pants.

Cardelli gazed down at her, tracing delicate patterns in her shiny hair. "I wish I could've been there for her," he said softly. "She's been through so much…"

"She'll be all right," Jane told him. "She's stronger than you think. You both are."

Cardelli nodded, then cleared his throat gruffly. "Well, Baby Girl, you ready to hit the road?"

Penny looked up at her father. Then she looked over at Jane. Slowly, she let go of Cardelli's pant-leg and wandered over to the consultant. Without a word, Penny wrapped her arms around Jane's waist in a tight hug.

Jane stroked his hand one last time over that gleaming copper hair. "Take care of each other," he instructed. "Okay?"

Penny nodded, releasing him. She walked back to her father. Cardelli scooped her up in his arms and they headed out through the maze of desks. Right before they rounded the corner, Jane saw her peek over Cardelli's shoulder.

Jane smiled and gave her a little wave. "Bye-bye."

Once they were gone, Jane sagged. The crutches dug into his armpits, and he turned wearily, aiming for something big, brown and leather. Jane settled into his couch with a deep sigh. He noticed that Lisbon had discreetly slipped into her office while he was talking to Penny's father. Jane laid his crutches on the floor and propped up his blue, plaster-encased leg so he could see the two signatures: " _RIGZ_ " (with the 'Z' made into an elaborate lightning bolt) and a simple "K.C."

At the moment, "RIGZ" was sitting on a stool in the middle of the room, attempting to catch Skittles in his mouth. The rainbow candies, tossed not-so-expertly by Larry from the Missing Persons Unit, were already littering the floor and several nearby desks. The two men were trying to get Cho to join in the game.

He just looked at them flatly and declared, "You're both idiots."

Van Pelt was watching from her desk, part amused, part fretful. "Guys, you should stop…Someone could choke."

A red Skittle pinged into the "I *HEART* YOGA" mug on her desk, and she giggled in spite of herself.

Jane raised himself up on an elbow and turned to see if Lisbon had heard. He saw her shake her head and roll her eyes. He smiled and flopped back down on the couch.

Lisbon hadn't been in the mood to sign his cast at the hospital. Jane would get her and Van Pelt on board later. Right now, there was only one thing he wanted to do: Jane sank deeper into the cushions, enjoying the familiar creaks. He breathed deep and smelled leather, Skittles and cinnamon perfume. He closed his eyes, and heard a candy crack off the window, followed by Lisbon's brisk footsteps.

"Okay, guys – time to knock it off."

"Yes, boss."

"Yes, ma'am…"

Jane smiled to himself.

_There's no place like home._


End file.
